I live in Florida but I grew up and attended high school in New Jersey. And in Jersey, the word “barbecue” was a verb. Dad would barbecue burgers, chicken, or steak for dinner. But tell that to someone in the Midwest or southwest and they’ll rip you a new one. To them, barbecue is a noun. Barbecue is a type of food like ribs, pulled pork, mesquite chicken, etc. In Jersey, they push the button on the Weber and dinner is served. But in Texas and neighboring states, it’s called grilling, and anything barbecued is slow cooked.

Now that we’ve got that straight, there is nothing better and more relaxing than smoking cigars at a barbecue. Okay, I was using it as a noun there – referring to a party/gathering of people who eat food cooked on a grill.

I get all worked up when I go to a BBQ because I love good food in the outdoors, and a nice day spent with some hot food, cold salads, baked beans, and frosty brews is livin’ large, in my opinion. But add to that nice day some premium hand rolled cigars and life just gets a whole lot larger.

A pre-meal smoke is “always” in order at a gathering such as this. While the foods are being prepared, the cigars come out, and choosing the right one is important. I always like something on the lighter side to start to kind of warm up my palate for the festivities and gastronomic pleasures to come. (Uh, that’s “food” for the socially challenged.) I’ll go for a Connecticut shade robusto to kick things off as the meat hits the grill and the appetizers make their way to the table. And if there’s a keg or some bottled goodness on ice, well then things are going pretty damned swell at that point… Unless you’re at my friend, Bob’s house.

Bob is a cheap-ass fugger who buys Busch Light in cans and serves Doritos for four hours until you’re ready to eat tree bark and fall unconscious from a low blood sugar induced coma. Wow, his parties suck and his old bag of a mother hates the smell of cigars and bitches like a, well, like a bitch, if you light up. Jeezuz, why the hell did I bring up Bob? Barbecues are supposed to be happy and fun, but that a-hole serves generic brand chips and soda and everyone gets two hotdogs if they’re lucky. And I will always torch up my stogie just to piss his battleaxe of a mother off.

Holy crap, that was some tangent! Okay, where the hell was I? Oh yeah…