An ode to physics and my parents...

The impossibility of physics in the shatter pattern of the peanut butter jar—when the inspector confirming that you have collected every splinter and dust mite of glass is a two-and-a-half-foot-tall, blond, smiling munchkin who will taste any piece he finds—is astounding.

The munchkin performing his inspection.

How the jar—newly arrived home, still on it's way out of the bag and therefore quite as full of peanut butter as it could be—could shatter into such infinitesimally small bits, blows the mind.

The determination that some of those shards had to have had to leave the kitchen where they were born—traveling in what one can only imagine to be a ricochet pattern akin to the realism of a car chase in an action-adventure movie—to arrive to a destination that couldn't be further from a direct path from where the original explosion took place is inspiring.

The original record—held by the chunk that made it from the kitchen, through the entry way, and quite far into the dining room (a feat that would have required at least one, very likely two rebounds)—is smashed by the fragment that surpassed (both in distance and angles traversed) this accomplishment, turning the corner in a minimum of three additional bounces to skirt the couch and come to a rest in the living room: implausible, but nevertheless executed to perfection.

After a thorough sweeping of the entire premises, it is confirmed that this accomplishment will not be outdone—we crown the winner, with the bittersweet acceptance that no peanut butter will be enjoyed in this house this morning.

A final mopping to remove the last traces of the competition, and the area is secure for the exploration of the munchkin's sharp, chocolate-colored eyes and nimble hands. I tip my hat to my parents—how many times did they host this contest on their tile floor, with its similar talent for encouraging acts of physical impossibility, keeping my siblings and me safe from the fragmented aftermath?