It’s 5:15AM. It’s dark. Crickets echo across the lawn. Moonlight washes the backyard, bright enough so I don’t need my phone flashlight or the patio flood lights on to begin my masterpiece. I take a deep breath, the last that won’t leave a hickory scent in my nostrils for about two days, and fire up my smoker.
Small streams of gray puff out of the back vent as the heat kicks in and the air starts to flow. I slowly unwrap the plastic around the nine-pound brisket that sat in my fridge all night. The blend of salt and pepper and brown sugar and onion and garlic powder and paprika has turned the slab of meat a burnt orange color.
My wife. My son. My daughter. My neighbors. My brother across town who’s coming over with his family later. They’re all asleep. Nobody’s around to witness the ‘before’ shot of the brisket so I take a picture of it under the stars like it’s my kid’s first day of school.
Shit. The lighting wasn’t great. I delete it, position the brisket at the center of the grill shelf and take another photo. There. Much better. I attach the photo to a text chain with my brother and various friends with the words, “It’s on.”
Damn I’m proud of myself. The smoker temp finally reads 225. I slide the thermometer into the side of the meat, place it on the grill and close the cover. We’re nine or so hours away from eating. Right on schedule.
I turn to stare at the moon. I grunt. I bang my chest to honor our cavemen ancestors, for I am a grown suburban man in 2025. I don’t hunt my own food. I don’t skin and carve the carcass. I don’t pack out the meat. But I can take a hunk of beef, nurture it, rub it, wrap it, care for it, rest it, and turn it into a delicious carnivore creation that would make homo erectus, homo habilis, and every other primate in our bloodline proud.
And I’m not alone.
Millions of men, mostly over 40, mostly domesticated dudes working on laptops during the week, have picked up the hobby of smoking large quantities of meat for large quantities of family members and friends in their backyards.
We get up early. We spend lots of money. We take immense pride in our brisket and ribs and rubs.
The question is:
Why? Why the hell are we all doing this? And why is it so awesome?
The Older We Get, the More Quality Matters
First, I am 100% aware that the 17-year-old version of me or the 27-year-old version of me would think this current model, the 47-year-old version of me, the one that willingly gets up on a Sunday at 5:15AM to toss a raw piece of a cow’s lower chest on fire, is nuts.
Those previous Finkel models, frankly, didn’t care that much about the quality or care of their food. Having buddies over for a barbecue? No problem, I’ll just grab a stack of 100% beef frozen paddies from Kroger, a brick of Kraft singles and whatever hamburger buns are on sale, ketchup and mustard and we’re good to go.
No seasoning the meat. No marinating. No frills.
And you know what? I loved those burgers. I still do. I’ll happily scarf them down at a football tailgate or neighbor’s backyard if that’s what they’ve got.
BUT, I don’t prefer them anymore because I know how much better a quality, well-crafted burger can be. Also, I now have the time and means to make them myself and I’m happy to do it.
The difference between a seasoned, butcher-bought, homemade paddy on fresh-baked, toasted and buttered brioche with an aged, sharp cheddar melted on and a flash frozen, bare, meat circle, Wonder Bread bun with a plasticy Kraft square isn’t one or two times better. It’s ten times better. Twenty. Easily.
Same with brisket. Or ribs. Or whatever you smoke.
Yes, you can always go out and buy this stuff. And if you live in Texas or one of the Carolinas or Tennessee, you can buy top-flight BBQ, but you didn’t make it with your bare hands, and now we’re getting to the heart of why so many guys have made smoking meat the perfect meat a side quest.
Deep Down We All Strive to be Craftsmen
Men crave challenges and men crave meat, so naturally, the challenge of making the perfect smoked meat appeals to a good many of us.
You throw in the fact that there’s eating, fire, and tinkering involved, and you’ve got a holy trinity of a hobby dudes can get behind.
And the best part is that if you’re into smoking meat, you’ve likely got a text chain that’s a sub-text chain in your crew of dudes who are also into smoking meat.
You’ve got thoughts on mops for meats, rubs for ribs, fire temps for filets, smoking burgers and on and on; you’ve likely taken notes in your phone on what works and what doesn’t; you’ve shared breakthroughs and flameouts; photos of perfect bark and elegant smoke rings.
You’ve talked each other through endless stalls and if you’re reading this and have no idea what that is, brother, you don’t want to know but if you start smoking meats, you’ll find out.
You’ll also find out how fun it is and how cool it is to try and master something new. How you meet new people into meat. How you now know your butcher’s name and what to look for in a good brisket. How you look forward to the smile on your family’s faces when they take their first bite. How your nieces and nephews ask to come over for Uncle Jon’s Brisket.
Yes, you’re creating a mouth-watering slice of meat, but you’re also crafting a skill and creating memories, both worthy pursuits.
So I guess that’s why the hell we get up at 5:15AM on a Sunday to smoke meat.
Because it’s totally worth it.
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Jon Finkel
Editor-in-Chief, Midlife Male
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Check out my latest books at jonfinkel.com
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