Father’s Day turned out to be a lovely day.  We had both grandpas here for a BBQ which is actually called a “Grill Out” if you live in my neck of the woods. Or worse yet-a “Fry.”  As in, “Would you like me to bring over some brats for da Fry?” You need to be a real lifer around these parts to utter that phrase.  It drives me insane…it’s not a “fry.”  We’re not “frying” anything.  There are no frying pans lying about.  No one is eating a fried egg or fried fish or chicken fried steak that I’m aware of.  There is a fire with a grill grate and there is meat on…