The first time I entered a kitchen was in my father’s Italian restaurant, Mario’s on the Square. I was probably around three years old. Right away, my father put me to work scrubbing potatoes. I can still remember my chubby little fingers struggling to get the potatoes clean enough for his approval. I worked (without pay) at Mario’s on the Square after school. Every birthday, my father would give me cookbooks and biographies of famous chefs like Julia Child and Jacques Pépin. My father was determined that I would follow in his footsteps, and he always got what he wanted. The first time I saw a motorcycle was in my uncle’s garage. He had just returned from a long-distance ride across several states. When I saw the gleaming chrome and inviting leather, something inside of me clicked. I began to read everything I could about motorcycles, and I would visit my uncle at least once a week to watch him tune up his bike. After a while, my father began to notice my newfound passion. We argued constantly—he wanted me to “quit messing around with those stupid bikes” and focus on my future. I already knew that motorcycles were my future, not cooking. Over time, we came to respect each other and our different passions. The day my father went for a ride with me on my motorcycle was one of the best days of my life. Which of these best describes the author's purpose for writing?
A. to advertise the author's ability to tune up motorcycles
B. to entertain readers with the author's personal history
C. to persuade readers to enjoy outdoor, not indoor, activities
D. to inform readers of healthy ways to deal with conflict