I've often been asked "Why do you go to so much trouble to smoke some meat?  Why not just get a gas grill?"  So as I pondered this, a forum friend of mine posted this.  "Boots" of McKinney, TX posted this on The Texas BBQ Forum and gave me permission to use.  Boots hit the nail right on the head.

"So let's say old Caveman Thag, a theoretical Neanderthal you all know to be a friend of mine, is going through the grocery one day and spies a rack of the purtiest beef ribs you ever saw.   And that rack of ribs up and SPEAKS to old Thag.  "Thag, brother, come get me for I am MEAT RARE AND FINE!".   And ol' Thag replies "Arrrrugghhh!!!!" which is Thagian for "Oh baby!!!!".   And so ol' Thag buys those selfsame ribs and carries 'em home.   And when Thag gets them home, he carefully rubs them up with his finest fresh mixed, home made, bona fide, compound, complex, rocksockinest Buddy Holly hootin-n-hollerinest GREATEST OF ALL TIME rub, because he is tear-droppin proud to be a free American and wants to cook his family the FINEST BARBECUE IN THE WORLD.  That's just the kind of caveman old Thag is.  And so he does, and then wraps 'em up real careful in clean brown virgin butcher paper and lays them gently in the back of his old personal MAN FRIDGE he keeps in the garage.   And brothers, he leaves them in there three days before he rolls back the stone so to speak.  Then on the third day he fires up his cooker with the best heat he can bring, hickory base with a load on of pecan.   And with great respect, he carries those dinosaur bones out to his cooker, lays them to rest, and vows "I am going to do justice by this meat; I will bring nothing short of my "A" GAME, and I will do whatever is required to cook the FINEST RIBS IN THE HISTORY OF MANKIND".  And so he sets himself to the task.   For 9 hours he toils, taking no nourishment, no sustenance, no liquid outside of an occasional Shiner Bock.  With stern determination he fixes his gaze upon the dial.  The temperature stays pegged inexorably between 210 and 220.   Moments of doubt arise; a quick turn of the spade and the poker, a chunk of pecan, a crack of the damper, a twitch on the chimney cap, a swift squirt of the mop bottle.  The crisis passes, the dial remains fixed as the compass needle to the pole, the clock marching unflinching to the outcome. 

At last, the appointed hour arises, and in the depths of his stubborn, primitive soul, Thag knows that he has achieved the goal that only he alone can comprehend or appreciate.  THEY ARE PERFECTION.   He cracks open the cooker, and in a moment of unbridled pride, he reaches for his old camera to preserve the moment.  A quick snap, and then he is off to carve the beast for his waiting family.  The meat is sublime, and they tear into it with primitive abandon.  As he sits watching with satisfaction the joy with which his family lives and enjoys the moment with his family, old Thag realizes the true prize.  He has brought them together and they are happy.  What more could there be?

. . .This is our art.  Michaelangelo painted the Sistine Chapel laying on his back on a tall scaffold in the middle of winter and the hot Italian summer and drove himself near mad in the process.  We do the same thing to a piece of meat using white hot flame and steel sitting in a camp chair.  Old Thag and Michaelangelo got a lot in common.  Thag's just not as good a photographer as old Mickey was."

And that is why we spend thousands of dollars and many hours on our labor of love: Barbeque.  Thanks Boots!!