Not a hobby. Not a phase. A standing appointment with a smoker, a slab of beef, and however many hours it takes to get it right.
Godly didn't set out to become the guy with the smoker going at 6am on a Saturday. It happened one brisket at a time — a bad one that taught him about bark, a good one that taught him to shut up and trust the process, and about a dozen since that just kept getting better.
Now it's the thing people ask about. Not "how are you," but "when's the next brisket."
Five steps. None of them fast. All of them non-negotiable.
Fat cap down to a quarter inch — enough to baste, not enough to steam.
Salt and pepper. Nothing to hide behind, nothing to distract from the meat.
Twelve to fourteen hours, low heat, steady smoke, and a lot of standing around.
Butcher paper, once the bark sets — never before.
An hour, minimum. Cutting early is how you ruin twelve hours of work.
There's always another brisket coming. Ask Godly when the next one's ready — and bring your own plate.