What I am about to tell you may well end my tenure in Kansas City television. I know what you're thinking "Well, Joel, what exactly would be the downside of that?" Good point. Anyway, I know that we live in the BBQ Capital of the world. So many famous places to get good ribs and steaks and roasts and chops and other tasty treats. And, this time of the year, The American Royal Barbecue kicks off. Here's the confession: I am not a big fan of the grilled meats. Please, don't aim that cow at me! It maybe loaded!

I love the smell of BBQ. I love watching others enjoy it. All of my kids are major-league carnivores. Taylor, in particular, would have made a fine caveman. (Remember, watch the new ABC show Cavemen! Tuesdays! Sorry for the gratuitous ABC plug but I have many mouths to feed and a mortgage to pay. So, please, watch ABC. Please?!) Anyway, I can envision Taylor lumbering out of his cave, clubbing a mastodon, dragging it back and gorging. All that would be left would be a pile of bones. Taylor is the one in our family that will fire up the grill for anything. He'd roast his morning Eggos, if possible. Just the other day, for his birthday, he grilled steaks for himself. The rest of the family had to sit at the foot of his chair and look pathetic.

I'm not sure why I never developed a big appetite for this kind of good stuff. Maybe it's because it's not chocolate or cheese. As a child, we did grill hot dogs and burgers from time to time but my dad's main BBQ masterpiece was chicken. He would use Sundrop cola...a local version of a Mountain Dew-type of soda. There was a difference which was clear from the commercials: Mountain Dew drinkers were always biking the wilderness, climbing cliffs, diving into a cold, clear lake....moving, bustling, active to the max. For Sundrop, the small-town Wisconsin brand, the commercials featured folks playing cards and bowling. Alright. You caught me. There weren't Sundrop TV commercials. We just barely had TV. (Also, I'm told that Sundrop is actually from Tennessee. But, I grew up thinking it was exclusive to my hometown and I'm sticking with that.) Anyway, my dad would put the chicken on the grill then sprinkle it with Sundrop Cola and paprika.

Paprika, of course, is a spice made from grinding up red peppers. The word is Hungarian derived from the Serbian word "papar," which came from the Latin, "piper," which means "pepper." That translates down to Wisconsinese for "Let's throw some of this red stuff on the chicken and see what happens. " That whole word journey also adds some context and depth to the "Peter Piper Picks A Peck of Pickled Peppers" story. Apparently, Peter Piper was multi-lingual and doing far more than just picking peppers.

So, my dad would make his famous chicken and it was good. In fact, he and his business partners and friends would make a bunch of it for the residents of Bluffview Acres Retirement Village every summer. It was a mark of maturation when you were asked to don the big, thick, heat-resistant gloves and help flip the four foot by four foot grate that held the dozens of pieces of chicken. When I was young, I thought all those legs came from one giant chicken. Maybe the result of some weird experiment that crossed a hen with a millipede...creating a MILLICHICK! Run for your lives! Of course, by the time I was in college I realized there was no such thing. Just the same, I still have nightmares that involve eggs, legs and Colonel Sanders in a tutu. Why a tutu? I don't know and I don't want to know.

My point, such as it is, is that I have been exposed to BBQ all my life and, for the last 20 years or so, have lived in the heart of BBQ heaven. Still, I've yet to go crazy over it. I think it has to do with my fear of looking silly while eating. That's why I don't eat out much and don't eat at work hardly ever. I always figure something will dribble down my chin or get caught in my teeth or smear my cheeks until I look like Emmett Kelly's ugly cousin. I have enough trouble with my appearance without all that. And, add to that, the little incident that occurred on FirstNews Wednesday morning. I had just sat down in my chair next to Donna Pitman when she exclaimed "Yuck! What smells like Lysol? Eeewww. Something's really pungent." I spent the next 24 hours feeling paranoid about smelling like a large can of Lysol in a suit and vocabularily (that's not really a word) inadequate because she used the word "pungent" in an everyday sentence. I know my work habits and my weather forecasts stink it up on a regular basis but I had not worried too much about my personal odor, until now! That has nothing to do with not eating at work but I had to get it off my chest...like the crumbs I would undoubtedly have if I were to eat in front of anyone.

Well, this year, I am going to make every effort to set aside my misgivings about looking silly while eating, ignore my fear of gristle and settle into the BBQ season. A person eating BBQ'd anything can't be reserved! You have to attack the meal like a wolverine at a sheep convention. No restraint whatsoever. You know, like the news media when OJ, Britney and anything involving lead paint enters their collective field of vision. (If Britney was covered in lead-based paint and then stolen by OJ, it would be the story of the year...maybe the century.) I think I can do it. The aroma alone should be a help. Better than smelling like Lysol.