I want to give you an idea of how much I thought about food prior to buying a charcoal smoker, because I already thought about food a lot. This makes me no different from the average American, but I tend to think obsessively about food, the way an alcoholic might think about drinking, or a pro basketball player might think about sex. Food is a permanent fixture of my waking consciousness, particularly if I happen to be the one making it. If I’m in charge of making prime rib for Christmas (I assure you I will have volunteered for the task), you better believe I’m already sketching out that meal WEEKS in advance. There is not just food, but also a plan. I approach the preparation of that roast as if I’m a detective trying to solve a string of child murders. I consider every angle.

So that’s me BEFORE buying a smoker. Now take that guy and make him three times as compulsive and insufferable. That is what happened to me the day I saw an Akorn Kamado cooker on sale at Amazon and nearly separated my shoulder clicking the ADD TO CART button. My friend Adam has one of those Big Green Eggs. His beef ribs are a masterwork. His pork is sweet, smoky death. Drive by his house when he’s barbecuing and it’s like a siren calling out, luring you to Anthemusa. I wanted his superpowers. I wanted to have fine meats of my own. And I didn’t want to pay retail price for it. Here now is what you can expect if, like me, you decide to become a Smoker Guy:

1. Anticipation of barbecue is almost better than barbecue itself. The smoker arrived and I spent a whole day assembling it, lavishing it with more attention and care than I provide my own children. My daughter, who also loves barbecue, asked what I was building.

“A smoker.”

“Can we have barbecue now?”

“You don’t understand, my dear. Barbecue is a slow, methodical, almost tantric process. Also, the smoker isn’t assembled yet.”

“Well can we have barbecue an hour from now?”

Christ.

I finally assembled my gleaming, ceramic masterpiece. And reader, it was gorgeous. The sunlight flickered off its surface like a hammered copper roof. Just opening the lid was satisfying, like holding a revolver. I envisioned a smorgasbord of animal parts gently smoking away inside it: crisping up on the outside, firming up before finally submitting and going tender and falling apart at the touch on the inside. Already, I was in a state of pure meat lust.

2. You will clean it. I took the circular cast iron grate and lovingly seasoned it, because the instructions told me to (I have never read an owner’s manual for anything until I bought this). I rubbed it down with oil as if it were a nude body, wiping it clean and placing it upon only the finest used towels. Before this, I owned a gas grill. I treat that grill like absolute shit. I never clean it. The burner shields have been blasted into oblivion. I have been known to let the drip pan overflow to the point where raccoons lick the wheels of the grill like they’re Tootsie Pops. My friend with the Big Green Egg only uses his gas grill now as STORAGE for BGE supplies. I’m well on my way to doing the same. But my precious Akorn? Oh, I would never let it fall into disrepair. Never ever ever. I’d sooner let someone key my car.

3. A smoker is essentially a gateway drug to buying smoker accessories. I wasn’t done with my preparation. I snatched up all of the ancillary products needed to optimize my smoker’s powers, and there were many: Royal Oak Charcoal (never briquettes!), smoking stones, silicon grill gloves so you can grope your meats by hand (SEXAY), lighters, industrial strength foils, and chimney starter. You MUST have a chimney starter. At first I thought I could start a charcoal fire with just a pile of it in the center of the grate, as shown in the instruction booklet. This was a hideous lie. You must buy a chimney smoker and stuff it with newspaper and then light it and then watch as it nearly burns your fucking house down before settling down and giving you useful coals.