It started like any other Saturday that promised greatness and ended up on a watchlist.
Coffee strong enough to descale a carburetor. Playlist: Zeppelin, because real pitmasters don’t queue up spa music.
Brisket trimmed, rubbed, and tucked in the smoker like a baby wrapped in bad intentions.

By hour three, the pit was humming , the kind of low, smoky rumble that makes you believe in a higher power made of mesquite. Then one rogue drip of grease hit the coal tray and summoned Lucifer himself.

WHOOMPH.
The lid slammed shut like a medieval torture device. Flames shot out the back vent, licking the siding, the lawn chair, and what was left of my self-respect.

The dog bailed. My neighbor yelled, “You okay, Mike?” like there was an answer better than “I’m marinating!”
Meanwhile, my wife came out with her phone, not a hose, yelling, “This’ll get views!”
Thanks, babe. Glad you’re thinking of engagement metrics while I’m out here doing live pyro testing.

The smoke turned black. The air stung. I realized two things:

Fire extinguishers are lighter when you actually need them.

Stainless steel doesn’t melt, but polyester shorts sure as hell do.

By the time I beat back the flames, I looked like a rejected stuntman from Mad Max: Backyard Edition.
The brisket? Charred on one side, divine on the other ; just like my soul.