Fire don’t Lie

Folks are always asking me what makes a great pitmaster. They expect me to rattle off some secret rub recipe or whisper the name of a rare wood only found on the shady side of a Tennessee holler. Some figure there’s a handshake or a chant, something passed down from an uncle who once cooked ribs for a president.

 

Now, I’ve heard all those stories, and I’ve probably helped start a few. But the truth is a whole lot simpler. If you want to know what makes a pitmaster worth his salt, it comes down to this: fire don’t lie.

That fire in your pit is the most honest teacher you’ll ever meet. It doesn’t care what kind of smoker you bought, how many trophies you’ve got on the shelf, or whether your meat comes from the fanciest butcher or the discount cooler at Spring Street Market. Fire will tell you the truth. And sometimes it’ll shout it in your face.

I learned that the hard way, of course. When I first got serious about barbecue, I thought I could out-smart the fire. I hovered over it like a nervous parent, opening the lid every five minutes, poking the brisket as if my finger knew better than the flame. One time I “checked on it” so often my wife said I put more heat into the backyard than into the meat. By the time that brisket was done, it was drier than a preacher’s throat after a tent revival.

Fire don’t lie.

Another time, I swore I’d discovered a shortcut. I piled the coals high, got it roaring hot, and slapped on some chicken. Fifteen minutes later, I pulled out what looked less like poultry and more like a meteor headed for the Smithsonian. My buddy said he half expected NASA to come knocking, asking why I’d intercepted space debris. We gnawed on it anyway, but I learned right there that fire won’t be rushed. You can’t bully it. You can’t trick it.

Fire don’t lie.

And don’t get me started on ribs. I remember one summer competition where I thought I had everything figured out. Fancy rub, perfect glaze, racks lined up like soldiers. Only problem? I got so busy yapping with the team next to me — fella was bragging about his sauce like it was liquid gold — that I forgot to mind the pit. By the time I turned around, smoke was billowing like a signal fire, and my ribs had crossed over from “fall off the bone” to “fall off the planet.” The judges took one bite and gave me a look I still wake up sweating about. If you’ve never been stared down by a disappointed Texan judge, let me tell you, that’s a fire all its own.

Fire don’t lie.

But here’s the thing: every time the fire taught me a lesson, it gave me something back. Patience. Humility. The kind of wisdom you can’t buy in a bottle or borrow from your neighbor. Because fire’s not just about cooking meat — it’s about cooking you. Not like a Thanksgiving Turkey where the little thermometer pops out. Let me tell you…

When you stand over a pit, hour after hour, waiting on smoke to kiss the brisket or ribs to loosen their grip on the bone, you’re not just making dinner. You’re learning to wait. You’re learning to listen. You’re learning that good things take their own sweet time, whether it’s meat, friendship, or faith.

And the funny part is, once you quit trying to boss the fire around, it turns into a friend. A stubborn one, sure — the kind who won’t let you cut corners — but a friend all the same. It’ll warm you, feed you, and fill your yard with laughter if you let it. And that is most important after all.

That’s why I tell folks who are new to barbecue not to be afraid of messing up. You’re gonna burn things. You’re gonna undercook things. You might even send a chicken into low orbit like I did. But every mistake is a gift, because the fire won’t lie to you. It’ll tell you exactly where you went wrong. And if you listen close, it’ll make you better, one smoke ring at a time.

So tomorrow, or next weekend, or whenever you light up that pit, I hope you see more than glowing coals. I hope you see a teacher. A truth-teller. A fiery old uncle with no filter who’ll keep you honest, whether you like it or not.

Because here’s the truth I’ve carried with me all these years, hard truth the fire burned into my bones: fire don’t lie.

It’ll expose you. Burn you. Feed you. Heal you. Sometimes all on the same day. But if you respect it, if you tend it like you’d tend a friendship, it’ll reward you with the best meals and the best memories of your life. That makes us all rich in ways I will save for another day.

And that’s the reason I keep showing up, apron on, wood stacked high, ready for another lesson.

So Cheers to you, Cheers to me, and Cheers to the fire — honest as the day is long, glowing steady, daring us to become who we ought to be. Cheers to the good life!

— Cole Burnitt