My dad has grilled every single Fourth of July for thirty-one years and refuses, on principle, to let anyone else touch the tongs, even the year he had his arm in a sling. "I can flip a burger with one hand," he insisted, doing exactly that, badly, while my mom hovered nearby with visible regret about every decision that had led to this moment. His neighbor Gary got a smoker two summers ago, a genuinely nice one, and has not let my dad forget it since. "Gary's doing brisket this year," my dad announced at breakfast, like this was a declaration of war. "Twelve hours. Says it's 'a whole process.'" "So do brisket," I said. "I'm not doing brisket, I'm doing what I've always done," he said, aggressively marinating chicken he definitely didn't need to marinate that hard. The competition escalated over two years into something neither man would call a competition out loud….. my dad bought a second grill "for volume," Gary added string lights "for ambiance," my dad responded with a full folding table setup he refers to as "the buffet," unprompted, to anyone who'll listen. Last month Gary showed up at our door, unannounced, holding a foil pan. "Made extra brisket," he said. "Figured you'd want to try it before you decide your whole strategy this year." My dad took it, tried it, went quiet for a genuinely uncomfortable length of time. "It's good," he admitted, like it physically pained him. They've been grilling side by side every weekend since, tongs shared without complaint, the competition apparently retired the same day it got good enough to actually enjoy together.