My normally quiet, understated spouse suddenly began a lengthy monologue about Concannon’s marvelous donuts in Muncie, Indiana.
With zero argument or prompting from me, his voice went into molto crescendo apassionato as he became more and more vocally and gesturally animated.
Finally, he raised his arms to the heavens and cried out, “You just can’t imagine what a euphoric, religious experience those donuts are for me!”
He stood there like a grand stone monument for a moment, eyes toward the sun and arms dramatically aloft as if declaring a Superbowl-winning field goal.
When his gaze and his arms dropped from exhaustion, I retorted, “You’ve really gotta get out more often, Honey.”