I spent an enjoyable Father's Day today, pretty much following the script for a sterotypical Sunday afternoon in suburban America. I watched the Champ Car Grand Prix of Portland on TV and then barbecued spare ribs and asparagus for dinner.

While waiting for dinner to finish cooking, I started thinking about the times I'd enjoyed around the barbecue with my dad, who passed away less than six months after my two-year-old son was born. It suddenly struck me that the motion I used to turn over the asparagus mimicked the way he used to do it.

It got me thinking about what I would teach my son about cooking with fire when he's older. Will we start with charcoal to master the basics before switching to gas, just like people who learn to drive a stick shift even if they generally drive an automatic? Or will that be hopelessly old-fashioned? ("C'mon, Dad, that's like entering text with a keyboard.") In the end, it doesn't really matter. I just hope that years from now, he looks back with fond memories of the experience and finds something to pass along to his son.