My cast iron skillet. My baby. My pride and joy. This girl has been with me for more years than I can remember so she is seasoned to perfection. Every inch of her is coated with memories of each spice and splash of oil that has touched her complexion. Homemade herbed butter and hot sauce is embedded into her very soul. She has seen everything from the morning’s eggs cooked over-easy, served with coffee, to the late night grilled cheese sandwich to accompany a snifter of single malt. She has sizzled on the table for fajita night and also spent time tucked away in the oven as she cooked a filet mignon to perfection.
My prized skillet is used at almost every meal. Used so often, in fact, that I don’t even bother putting her in a drawer. She sits proudly on the front, far right burner waiting for her next assignment. She is my favorite kitchen accessory and only gets better looking with age.
I’m exceptionally protective of my girl. NOBODY except for me knows how to care for her. Steve typically does dish duty after our meals, but he puts his hands in the air and backs slowly away from the sink when it is time to clean the skillet. I am pretty sure that I have more directions on how to properly care for my skillet than how to care for the animals. If I am away and our farm sitter is someone I don’t know well, I hide my black beauty in the guest room closet so she won’t be misused in my absence.
But here is my dilemma: my BFF is too big for the stove in the Airstream. I finally broke down and purchased a smaller cast iron skillet, but every time I cook with her I feel pangs of guilt. It is like a cheap, empty affair; like it is just too much effort to make the relationship meaningful. I catch myself firing up the burner, only to replace the temptress with the old gal I’ve come to know and love. Can I possibly come to see the worth in investing the energy needed to make this union work? Can I entertain the notion of loving them equally? Only time will tell.