The best excuse I’ve heard lately came from a friend who skipped my barbecue because his sourdough starter was “at a critical stage.” Not a sick kid. Not car trouble. A jar of flour paste required his presence, apparently, the way a newborn requires a parent.

And here’s the thing: I believed him instantly. That’s the genius of it. Nobody invents an excuse that embarrassing. If you’re going to lie, you say traffic, you say a headache, you reach for something dignified. Admitting that fermented goo outranks me on your social calendar has the unmistakable ring of truth.

Great excuses aren’t airtight. Airtight is suspicious. Great excuses are so specific and so mildly humiliating that checking would feel cruel. He even sent a photo of the jar, which was either proof or a hostage situation.

I wasn’t mad. I was taking notes. Next invitation I want to dodge, my starter suddenly gets very needy.