The cast iron skillet is heavy.
I have to use two hands to get it out of the drawer.
And I like when my wife asks me to do it for her.
It is sturdy yet fussy.
Uncomplicated yet demanding.
All at the same time.
It has a heritage.
When you think of a skillet, you think of the South.
But what it represents is hospitality.
Welcoming. Inviting. Sharing.
The skillet is a useless hunk of metal when it is made.
It has to be seasoned to be useful.
Like us.
And once it is seasoned, you have to protect it.
And re-season it, over and over.
Cast iron skillets give something to the food they cook.
A certain, barely perceptible quality.
Sure, it can fry things better. It makes a good crust.
But there is a quality it gives food.
A participation almost. A ritual.
It's heavy to get out and a pain to clean, but I know exactly when to reach for it despite all that.
It gives me a thrill when I recognize the right moment to use it.
Seeing it come out is like seeing an old friend.
It's not just a tool. It's part of a process. It requires care.
But it brings something to that process all on its own.
And when I cook up a big Sunday breakfast, it makes me think.
As I clean the skillet and care for it, after the eggs and bacon and pancakes are gone.
After the coffee pot is drained.
The scraping forks quiet and the laughing children run off.
It makes me think.
If I take care, maybe this skillet will make my grandkids breakfast someday. Maybe even their kids.
We live in a disposable society. We like to define ourselves, so we throw away the past and start new.
Each generation is new and clean.
We construct meaning instead of inheriting it.
Maybe those future generations won't choose to use my cast iron skillet.
But I like knowing they could.
I like knowing the pan is strong and reliable.
And with just a bit of care, a bit of attention...
It could keep making breakfast for my family long after I am gone.