Most folks look at me and assume a creature who’s been alive since mammoths roamed the neighborhood wouldn’t have strong opinions about modern grilling. Wrong. I’ve got opinions carved in stone. Literally. There’s a slab behind my cave that reads: “Fire good. Propane bad.” I spelled “propane” wrong back then, but the message stands.

See, grilling isn’t just about cooking meat. It’s a ritual. A calling. A spiritual handshake between a man and the flame. When I build a fire, I’m not just lighting dinner — I’m summoning the ancient spark that kept my ancestors warm, alive, and smelling delicious to saber-toothed cats.

Propane, though? That’s cheating. That’s pushing a button and pretending you earned something. It’s like skipping the hunt and ordering takeout. You turn a knob, it hisses, it lights, and suddenly you’re supposed to feel proud? Not me. I need crackling wood, snapping embers, and smoke that digs into my beard like it’s paying rent.

Real grilling starts long before the meat hits the grate. It’s in choosing the right wood, the right stones, the right piece of ground that won’t ignite the rest of the forest. It’s in blowing on the coals until your lungs beg for mercy. It’s in tending the fire like it’s a stubborn old friend who won’t do what you want until it’s good and ready.

When I grill, I feel connected to every version of me that’s stood before a flame over the last 40,000 years. The one who roasted mammoth ribs, the one who flambéed a woolly rhinoceros by accident, and the one who once tried to cook fish on a rock so hot it launched the meal into orbit. Trial and error is part of the mastery.

Propane robs you of that. It removes the struggle, the triumph, the raw joy of creating something smoky and perfect with nothing but heat and stubbornness. You don’t become a grill master by twisting a dial. You become one by wrestling with nature until it gives you something delicious.

So if you ever stop by my place and see me hunched over a pile of glowing logs, waving a stick around like I’m arguing with the fire — don’t worry. That’s just me practicing the sacred art. And if you show up with a propane tank?

I’ll use it as a stool while the real meat cooks.