You take me back to my childhood on the farm.  You remind me of the house my parents retired to. You accompanied me through seven years with my husband. And you’re with me still, in the house I’ve built just for me. 

Of the many things my mother offered up when she shifted to retirement home living, you were the sole item requiring a lottery for dispersal. My sisters and I each eyed you hungrily, wanting to feel the weight of your metal so lovingly cared for; coveting that weight for ourselves; knowing if we acquired you new now, we’d die before we achieved what mom had accomplished in her 60 years with you. 

When my name came out of that hat, I felt the responsibility for your care as weighty as you yourself. I knew sisters and mother would monitor your condition when they saw you again. I didn’t want to waste my legacy. 

“No, not soap!” I cried out in anguish when my husband first tried to clean you.“In fact, don’t use it at all,” I continued. 

He didn’t need to use you - we had alternatives, your lesser cousins were more replaceable. It seemed too risky to leave you in his hands without the benefit of my years of training. I hoped it didn’t seem like I valued your pristine surface more than my relationship. I justified it by thinking you’re best in the morning, and he wasn’t much for mornings. 

Each time I have a new cleaner start with me or house sitters come, I have to remember to ask them not to touch you. 

“Consider this like family jewels,” I say as I point to you reverentially. They back away. It’s clear you are not for just anyone’s use. 

I look at you today amid my pared-down things in my new Lilliputian home. You and your colleagues are the things I value and use more than anything else. Many of your teammates are shiny and new, like the kitchen itself. But you, you’re the workhorse, your painted handle worn away decades before I was born by my mother’s sweat. You sit ever-present on display on my new induction top, often with the remnants of the morning’s use still lying in your belly, awaiting a quick swipe with a paper towel before I use you again tomorrow. When the remnants are stubborn, I scrub you with coarse salt, rinse you with hot water, and season you with a skiff of oil over high heat. Just as I learned to do. 

You are the original Teflon. You sear meat, reduce a sauce, sweat an onion, and yes, dear cast iron pan, you’ll fry my morning egg.

Thank you. I look forward to many more decades together. 

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