There we were, at the pot luck at Iowa’s farmhouse. Virginia brought a Smithfield ham. Pennsylvania brought scrapple. Kentucky brought some bourbon. As for me — the Pine Tree State — I brought lobster, of course. They used to say, as goes me, so goes the nation. But to be honest, this hasn’t been true for decades.

Sometimes I miss it, being a bellwether.

I’d arrived with my old friend Massachusetts, who looked a little irritated. “Who’s it gonna be this time?” she sighed. Every four years, Iowa goes speed dating, and then melodramatically announces her choice to the rest of us, as if we’re supposed to follow her lead. It’s not like we don’t care about Iowa. But, please. We’re all making choices, too.

Before I could answer, though, Iowa welcomed us in. “Maine, Massachusetts!” Iowa gushed. “Come on in! Have some bacon ice cream!”

“Bacon ice cream, ugh,” said Pennsylvania.

“Says the state who brought scrapple,” muttered Kentucky.

“Commonwealths, please!” said Iowa. “We’re not here to fight.”