The Hat That Knew the Weather: A Pitmaster’s Porch Tale

Told by Cole Burnitt

I’ve always said there’s two kinds of folks in this world: those who check the weather on their phone, and those who step outside, squint at the sky, and say, “Looks like rain.” Me? I fall somewhere in between. I don’t need a screen, and I don’t claim to read clouds like an old sailor. Weather is simple. I’ve got my hat.

Now, I don’t mean any hat. I’m talking about this one — a sweat-stained, smoke-cured rancher’s brim that’s seen more briskets than barbershops. The crown’s creased where I grabbed it with greasy fingers one too many times, the leather band smells faintly of hickory, and the brim… well, the brim’s where the magic happens.

That brim has a mind of its own. When the sun bites down, it curls like bacon in a hot skillet. When the air thickens with humidity, it sags low over my eyes as if it’s trying to hide. And when a storm’s brewing? Son, that brim dips like it’s bowing to the Almighty.

Folks laugh when I say it, but I’ve trusted this hat more than any weatherman. Never understood how they keep their job for being wrong so often.  But last summer, my neighbor Joe leaned over the fence, sipping a beer, chuckling as I dragged a tarp toward the woodpile. “Forecast says sunshine ‘til Tuesday,” he hollered.

I flicked my brim. “Forecast says you better move that cooler under cover.”

He rolled his eyes. Ten minutes later, the sky cracked wide open, thunder booming like somebody dropped a smoker lid on concrete. The rain came sideways, fast enough to soak your boots while you were still thinking about lacing ‘em.

Now, I was in the middle of a rib cook when the heavens opened, and let me tell you, there’s no panic quite like watching perfect mahogany bark threaten to turn into soup. I scrambled like a hound dog after a pork chop. Charcoal bag over one shoulder, mop bucket under the other, apron flapping like a tangled cape.

Fire don’t wait, and neither did that rain.

I wound up flipping ribs with the only tool long enough to reach through the downpour without burning my arm — a garden shovel. Picture me standing there, shovel in one hand, hat dripping in the other, ribs sizzling as raindrops hissed off the grate. It wasn’t pretty, but mercy, those ribs came off tasting like victory.

Joe? He showed up sheepish as a wet cat, mumbling something about trading in his weather app for a Stetson. If only they would listen.

Now, this wasn’t the first time my hat proved itself. I remember a church picnic years back — forecast promised “clear skies.” My brim sagged low that morning, and I told the preacher’s wife, “Might wanna move that cobbler table inside.” She gave me that look women save for men who think they know better. By noon, we were all huddled under the fellowship hall roof, peach cobbler safe and sound while rain poured on the fried chicken line outside.  As I left that day, I just smiled at her and tipped my hat.

Another time was at a barbecue competition down in Texas. I’d just fired up my pit when my hat tugged down like a mule on a lead rope. I told my buddy, “Storm’s comin’.” He laughed, said I’d gone loco. Thirty minutes later, tents were flying, briskets were rollin’ across the fairgrounds like tumbleweeds, and there I was, meat safe, fire steady, hat brim dripping proud. Won my division that day, and I still give half the credit to my hat.

See, gadgets are fine. I use a thermometer same as anyone. But if you lean on gadgets alone, you never learn the feel — the way smoke looks when it’s thin and blue, the way a brisket sighs under the tongs when it’s ready. Same with life. You can set alarms, check apps, read headlines… but the truth usually lives right under your nose, if you’ve got the patience to pay attention.

That’s what my hat teaches me. Wisdom ain’t downloaded; it’s earned. Earned standing over a fire in the rain, or saving cobbler at a church picnic, or keeping your cool when tents go flying. Earned slow, the way hickory smoke curls through a slab of meat, working its way deep until it can’t be forgotten.

So the next time your phone says “clear skies,” but your gut says otherwise, do yourself a favor: trust your gut. Or borrow my hat. Just don’t spill sauce on it — that’s the one stain I ain’t figured out yet.