Every pit has a toolbox full of ghosts.
Mine’s got more than most.

There’s the spatula that’s bent at a 45-degree angle because I once tried to flip a half rack with it. The tongs with one missing spring that snap shut like a bear trap. The lighter that’s been refilled so many times it qualifies for Social Security.

Every sane person would’ve thrown this junk away. Not me. I grew up in the ’90s. Back then, if it still sparked, smoked, or made a noise when you hit it, it was “good enough.”

I keep telling myself I’ll upgrade. Then I open a fresh beer, stare at the melted handles, and think, nah, these still got one more cook in them.

The worst offender is the meat thermometer I bought in ’98. It’s got a dial, a crack, and more lies than a politician. Every time I stab a brisket, it tells me it’s done. Every. Damn. Time.

And then there’s the grill brush. The handle’s taped, half the bristles are gone, and I’m 90 percent sure the other half are in someone’s digestive tract. I could buy a new one, but that’d mean admitting defeat.

You want to know what real Gen-X barbecue looks like? It’s duct tape on everything, burn marks on the table, and a soundtrack of Metallica mixed with swearing. It’s fixing a gas leak with a wrench you found in the grass. It’s refusing to replace something that still technically works because you earned every scratch on it.

Last week the old lighter finally gave out. It sparked one last time, sighed, and died. I gave it a proper burial in the ash bucket. Then I pulled a match from a box that’s been wet since 2003 and lit the fire anyway.

Because new tools don’t have stories. Old ones do.