Hi, my name’s Mike, and I’ve got a problem.
Not the kind you can fix with therapy , unless your therapist owns a Weber.

It started innocent. A few coals after work, maybe a Saturday sear.
Then came the bulk bags. The loyalty to certain brands.
One day I realized I was sniffing smoke vents like a sommelier.
“What’s that note? Hickory? No — oak with a hint of childhood trauma.”

I keep three types of charcoal on hand. Lump for the purists, briquettes for long cooks, and a sketchy mystery blend I bought from a guy in a parking lot who swore it burned “clean and spiritual.” It did not. It smelled like regret and old pallets.

People talk about clean eating, I talk about clean burn.
They count calories , I count BTUs.
I’ve skipped parties because I just lit a new chimney.
I’ve judged people for using gas. I’ve also judged myself for judging them.
That’s the circle of smoke, baby.

The truth is, I don’t even cook sometimes.
I light the pit just to hear it crackle.
To see that first ghost of smoke curl into the air like forgiveness.
That’s my meditation, my incense, my happy place.
You can have your scented candles. I’ve got mesquite therapy.