When I was five, I went to a birthday party for my friend Pete. The party was at his house, and about 20 other kids were there. Pete’s family was rich (by Beloit standards) and they lived in a nice house on Emerson Street over by Beloit College.

Everybody was having a great time in the back yard, running around playing tag, sliding down the slide, checking out the new Sting-Ray bike Pete got as a birthday present.

I noticed that Pete’s mom was passing out chocolate chip cookies. She was using a spatula to slide them right off the baking pan into kids’ hands. She was giving one to everyone. I thought she’d come over and give me one, too, but after looking up and glancing around she just went back into the house. I seemed to be the only kid who didn’t get a cookie.

I walked over to Pete, who was standing ten feet away. “I didn’t get a cookie,” I said.

“Maybe you don’t deserve one,” he replied, chomping away at his cookie.

This comment triggered my first confrontation with a difficult philosophical question. What did it mean to “deserve” a chocolate chip cookie?

I stared at Pete blankly as new questions raced through my head: What had Pete done to deserve a cookie that I hadn’t? What had all the other kids done to deserve theirs? How did anyone really deserve anything they got? I had lots of nice stuff—a bike with training wheels, a piggy bank, Buster Brown shoes—did I “deserve” any of those things? Who decided who deserved things—wasn’t that God’s job? Or was it your parents…?? I was flummoxed.

“Here, you can have mine,” said Jill McCready, a freckled-face red-head I knew from Sunday school. She extended her hand, which held a chocolate chip cookie. She hadn’t even taken a bite.

That’s when I started to cry. Why am I dredging up this heart-rending story, Dana? A couple weeks ago you asked me what’s the difference between Republicans and Democrats. I’m not sure why, but this story was the first thing that popped into my head. That’s all I’m going to say about that.