I have often alluded to my love of Scooby-Doo.

Let me be clear. Scooby-Doo was not merely my favorite cartoon as a kid.

It became part of my vernacular.

The Mystery Machine. The gang. The ridiculous disguises. The haunted mansions. The inevitable creepy caretaker. And, of course, a talking Great Dane who was somehow both terrified of everything and willing to investigate it anyway.

Honestly, relatable.

I also liked He-Man, although nowhere near as much. I was apparently capable of appreciating the power of Greyskull, but my heart belonged to Scooby and the gang.

Interestingly, childhood nostalgia has limits.

I discovered this when I watched Masters of the Universe this year.

Let’s just say my adult self did not experience the same transcendent joy my younger self apparently had for He-Man.

Some things are meant to remain exactly where they belong. In childhood memories.

As an adult, I did develop a brief affection for South Park. And yes, I believe that counts as a cartoon.

We actually hosted dinner parties to watch it.

Our sophisticated menu?

Pasta.

Bananas Foster.

Hard cider and wine.

Looking back, it was basically the culinary equivalent of a very low-budget supper club.

And somehow, it was perfect.

Those were the good old days of simplicity. Friends, food, television, laughter and no one pretending they needed a twelve-course tasting menu to have a good evening.

These days, I don’t know much about cartoons.

But I remain open-minded.

Especially if there’s a murder mystery, a bunch of meddling kids, an absurdly suspicious mansion and a talking dog.

Some things never go out of style.

Scooby-Dooby-Doo!