We host a barbecue in the almost-chill of late October, like every year, and my relatives huddle around the grill to absorb the bratwurst-flavored warmth it radiates. Dad stands vigil at the helm, arms crossed, tongs snapping air as he draws upon some magic intuition that whispers when to rotate the sausages. Or—as he calls them—Hallowieners, because he is Dad, a Midwestern Dad, and the groans from his wife, children, grandchildren, and family cat fuel his laughter. But we let him have this moment, this one day in autumn when he cooks something far more edible than his puns, a day to become caricature, benign stereotype that comforts in its plaid flannel folksy-ness.

He minds the crisp skin of his charges, brooks no interference of this sacred duty, clamps my niece Gemma’s miniature hand between the silicone tongs when she tries to peek under the grill’s hood. There might be a frown within his beard somewhere, but how he shakes his head is slow, affectionate, absent reprimand.

“Not yet,” Dad says. “Patience is a virtue, kiddo.”

We let him have this as well, this tidbit of unoriginal grandfatherly wisdom, the reclamation, even for one day, of a thing important to Dad. The afternoon will pass, the aunts and uncles and annual-obligation cousins will depart, Dad will hang up his tongs for another year and pretend for the next ten that no one at our family cookouts has ever heard him tell the story about Gemma and the tongs before he retreads the memory once again.