Ever since the dawn of time, guys just love to play with fire. It all started when Prometheus stole fire from the Greek god Zeus and gave it to us mortals. I personally can’t thank the dude enough – unfortunately the Big Z was pretty pissed and had Prometheus chained to a rock and every day an eagle came along and picked out his liver. Yeah, that’s gonna leave a mark. And what’s better than stoking a roaring, crackling fireplace? Women don’t tend to a fireplace, it’s not in their genetic make up. It’s without question a dominant male trait to toss a hunk of log onto a burning pile of timber. I’m pretty sure men actually possess a “fire” gene. Makes sense.

You know what else most chicks won’t do? No, not that you hormonal dirtbag – I’m talking about the great American pastime of barbequing. Almost all chicks rely on the male of the species to char the carcass on an open flame. Give them an oven and one of those little pop-up rectal thermometers and they do a nifty job with a turkey or roast. But when it comes to red meat and savory pork nothing but nothing beats the blackened stripes delivered by a red-hot grill top. When the juices flow and the fat hits those flames there’s nothing that gets the testosterone pumping more than the sweet smell of searing animal flesh. (I’m making grunting noises as I type.)

We Americans seem to live for a good barbeque cook out. All through the year, no matter the weather, guys are gassing the Webers and firing up the Kingsford. My son’s baseball team recently had a doubleheader and we decided it was time to get the grill going – sizzling burgers, crispy dogs, and juicy sausages put us all in a good mood making everyone forget about the ass-kicking the opposition was laying on the boys. I don’t know what it is about a sunny day and a blue sky that makes a barbeque so great, but I’m sure we all agree that it feeds the spirit every bit as much as the stomach.

Real barbeque purists will only cook with charcoal briquets or seasoned wood, claiming the heat and smoke make for the best flavor for any meat. You always see in the barbeque cooking contests on TV that they never use a gas grill, but instead briquets or certain types of wood that give meat like ribs, brisket, chicken or pulled pork that unmistakable smokey flavor. To those in the southern parts of the US, the word barbecue is a noun, where in the north it is a verb. These elitists of barbequdom turn their noses up at those of us who purge the propane tank. But we men of suburbia with little time for anything enjoy the convenient click of the gas grill and the flavor that a nice piece of metallic hardware brings. And you don’t have to spend a fortune to have some of the finer names in grilling either. There’s a good number of high quality gas grills for under $500, including the top names like Weber, Ducane, Fiesta, Char Broil, and Broil King. I personally love my Weber Silver. The neat thing about the Weber design is that by lighting the two outside burners and leaving the middle one off, the grill takes on the effect of a convection oven and the heat circulates around the meat cooking it slower and retaining all the juices. That method is amazing for something like a marinated pork loin. I even do it with thicker steaks like a porterhouse where I first sear both sides on super high heat, then turn the middle burner off and let them continue to cook without burning or drying them out whatsoever. Holy God, I don’t know about you, but I could eat my goddamned foot right now I’m so hungry.

And I ask you – what on this earthly plain is better – and more manly – than lighting up a great cigar while tending the grill and tossing back some ice-cold brews on a beautiful autumn evening? Now we’re talking about one of the greatest pleasures known to mankind. Something about this ritual, this rite of passage that brings the body, mind, and soul to a place of existential bliss. Under these conditions, nervous breakdowns, heart failure, and acts of war could never exist. Fresh air, red meat, and aged cigars are the recipe for a long and healthy life if you ask me.

Again, I really have to thank Prometheus for his contribution to mankind, and the most bogus price he paid because of it. Can you imagine no tailgating, bonfire pep rallies, singing around the campfire, or that damned burning hunk of Yule Tide log at Christmas? And what kind of horrid bore would summertime be without the smell of searing meat wafting throughout the neighborhood? And fer crissakes, how would we light our puros? God bless you, Prometheus – and don’t worry, I’m really not a big fan of liver.