My American cultural inheritance is with baseball, apple pie and that pre-pubescent party time favorite: spin-the-bottle. Sequestered by our parents who were upstairs admiring the Tupperware and exchanging stock tips, we fifth graders were on the shag-carpeted floor below giggling in terror as we invented a new rule with each spin of the bottle. The girl I kissed made me sign a nondisclosure or I would tell more.
An easy slide into nostalgic times. We were assured of the inevitability of courtship, guarded rendezvous were tacitly encouraged as long as everyone worked hard all week, the lawn got mowed, and prayers were respectfully recited before dinner. Fueled by strong intuition and school hallways thick with pheromones, we would figure out the dance moves, each one less awkward than the next.