It’s only about six inches across, and has the blackened bumpy texture only decades of use creates. If needed, it can make a delectable hot breakfast or be wielded as a formidable weapon. (I’m just guessing on the weapon thing in case you were wondering. Honest.) The heft of the old cast iron frying pan requires respect when handling…not unlike the memories it conjures each time I hold it within my potholder-mitted hands.
When my grandmother passed away some years ago, my mother beckoned me to help her go through the house and decide what items could be salvaged. Grandmother always kept a spotless home, but when she was sent—prematurely in my view—to a nursing home, her house was left vacant and unheated for many years. Family in-fighting about Grandma’s situation and home meant things were left untended until her death. As a result, mold and mildew ran rampant and many articles that could have been put to use, or treasured, needed to be thrown away. As my mom and I and a few others opened cupboards and drawers it was heartbreaking to witness the senseless waste. Homemade blankets, doilies, and rugs were mouse-eaten and stained. A fragile portrait of my great-grandmother had an ugly rust-colored watermark running down her face, but I took it in hopes that one day I can have it restored. As we went through Grandma’s tiny kitchen, a place I spent countless happy hours in my childhood, I wanted to cry. When she was living it was almost impossible to visit and not have a nose full of heavenly scents greet you at the door. But at the moment the space was in deplorable condition and nothing—nothing!—about it spoke to my memories of fluffy lemon meringue pies sitting on the counter, potato pancakes sizzling and begging for syrup, or eggs* frying in that little black cast iron pan.
I gingerly stuck my head into a cavernous cupboard tucked near the sink and was greeted by green lumpy things. I pulled on rubber gloves and lifted out what had once been pots and pans lovingly used and cleaned. Mom was taking the objects from me and mostly tossing them straight into a garbage bag. When I lifted out the little cast iron pan, I held it back. It was also completely covered in mold and mildew, but I couldn’t, I wouldn’t, let it go. Somehow one memory would be salvaged!
It took a lot of work to clean the pan up and re-season it, but I’m happy to say it now has a permanent spot on the top of our stove. My husband and I could put it away after use—and we use it often—but I like to see it when I walk in the kitchen door. It helps me viscerally hold on to that part of Grandma that infuses me with my love of baking and cooking. Eggs are still being fried in that little black pan at least three times a week. Who knows, maybe one day I’ll have a grandchild to share an egg sandwich with as we dangle our feet in the fishing waters of my memories.
*As a side note, when Grandma and I would go fishing, she often packed along a lunch which consisted of a thermos of coffee, fried egg sandwiches on homemade bread, and thick sugar cookies made the night before. I can practically taste the feast now and still hear the stories she would tell me as we shared our fishing lunches all those many years ago.
My grandma made fried eggs in her cast iron skillet that had “edges”. I can still taste those crispy edges of egg white fried in butter. It’s a WONDERFUL memory and one I hadn’t remembered in decades. Thank you dear friend for activating a wonderful sense memory.