There are times in a parent's life where you can actually see your half of the chromosone contribution flaunting itself. Generally, you have about a fifty-fifty chance of that relating to an attribute you'd really rather had not had to be passed down. Like unmanageble hair. Or an obsession with all things Manilow. But when the Critter insisted we make cornbread together three nights in a row because she just couldn't get enough, I could see those Georgia genes flaunting themselves in the best way. How many three year olds do you know this handy with a cast iron skillet? And when she joined me on the couch to eat a slice of fresh, warm cornbread crumbled into a glass of milk (guaranteed to disgust my bride, every time), my heart was just bursting with the kind of paternal pride that you only get to experience five or six times in your life, if you're lucky. Next month, we take her to her official examination for private school admission. Under "race" I'll put "half-cracker".