There are men who chase money.
There are men who chase women.
And then there are men like me who chase a perfect smoke ring.

I have ruined weekends chasing that thin halo of pink.
Not the meat’s color, not the taste, the proof.
That one eighth inch line that says,
"Brother, you communed with the gods of combustion."

I used to think it was just science. Nitric oxide, myoglobin, yada yada.
Then one night, around beer number five, watching that smoke drift out of the stack,
I realized no scientist ever cried over a brisket that turned gray.

That ring means something bigger.
It is forgiveness. It is validation. It is a halo for the damned.
It says you burned, you sweated, you waited, and you earned it.

I have seen men argue religion, but never like they argue bark.
Too dark. Too pink. Mine’s deeper.
That is barbecue theology. We do not read scripture, we smell it.

One cook, I tried shortcuts. I added curing salt, sprayed like I was baptizing it.
Got the color, sure. But no soul.
That brisket looked like heaven and tasted like homework.
Lesson learned. The ring is not decoration. It is confession.

Every pit has its gospel. Mine says slow down.
Keep the smoke thin, the fire honest, the heart patient.
You cannot rush a sermon or a brisket. Both fall apart when pushed.

By the time that ring appears, you have already done the hard part.
You have tended the fire, fought the weather, ignored your phone.
You have earned that miracle.
And when you slice through and see it staring back, that is salvation with a bark crust.