“Perfect,” Grandma cooed, “just perfect.” She beamed as she added the last
strawberry to the glistening chocolate frosting on top of the Thunder Cake.
As rain poured down on our roof, grandma cut a wedge for each of us. She poured
us streaming cups of tea from the samovar. When the thunder ROARED above us so
hard it shook the windows and rattled the dishes in the cupboards, we just
smiles and ate our Thunder Cake.
From that time on, I never feared the voice of thunder again.