In Japan, if you mess up the way you cook something, people will politely say, “It’s okay, it’s still edible,” just to keep you from feeling embarrassed. In Texas, I overcooked the meat at a barbecue. Actually, I didn’t just overcook it. I turned it into charcoal. Appearance: steak. Texture: construction material. Smoke level: small wildfire. An old man standing nearby looked at it for a second and quietly said, “That’s not meat anymore. That’s history.” A guy holding a beer walked over, poked the black lump with tongs, and said, “Give it another five minutes and it might connect to Wi-Fi.” The kids laughed. The dog sniffed it once and walked away. Someone started recording on their phone. Then one guy patted me on the shoulder and said, “Brother, don’t worry. If you managed to cremate something at your first barbecue, you’re doing fine.” Nobody ate it. But nobody had to. That day, I wasn’t cooking meat. I was grilling my initiation into America.