At six years old, I sat down after Sunday morning cartoons and wrote my very first story. The illustrations were nothing to speak of, but the premise went something like this:
Bugs Bunny becomes a priest and takes over my parish church, Good Shepherd.
Unexpectedly, he looks very sharp in a vestment. He delivers a sermon that lasts only one minute long, and then Mass is over. From the pulpit, a carrot is loudly, unabashedly chewed. Before we all genuflect and skedaddle, one young lady is called forth from the congregation (myself, of course.) And in an exercise of Divine intervention, Bugs makes an exception for me, little two-more-years-till-communion me, and lets me taste the sacramental wafer. The end.
I gave the story to my father, a British Catholic in the tradition of Evelyn Waugh, and he loved it. At a time when he mainly intimidated me (his accent, his suits and cigars, his bowls of spicy radishes) I found in his appreciation of this story a common thread for the two of us to hang onto.
In many families, grilling and barbecue are rites of passage. Son or daughter reaches the age when he or she can handle fire without disaster. Dad passes the tongs and secret family recipes and a new barbecue generation is born.
Sure it's a cliche, but one you can hang your hat on: most guys like meat.