I love my cast iron skillet. It was a hand-me-down from Derek's mom. I feel that used cast iron cookware is usually better than new because it's already been seasoned, so I don't have to mess with any of that business. I love to use my skillet for upside-down cakes, cornbread, and elementary home defense.
Perhaps I should explain.
Derek was gone on a business trip last week. This meant I had to hold down the fort for a few days by myself. Fortunately, it was warm and beautiful outside, so I let the kids run themselves into exhaustion in the backyard every afternoon. This gave us all space during the day, and they slept soundly at night.
My nights, however, were a different story.
After I finally get the older two kiddos into bed, I bounce Caedmon around for awhile before laying him down. Peruse the bookshelves for something to re-read because I haven't been to the library in a while. Settle into the rocking chair in the living room. Immerse myself in a favorite story.
Hear strange sounds. Outside the window. In the basement. Upstairs. In the laundry room.
I concentrate harder on the book and tell myself it's just the house settling. It is, after all, an old house, and after 111 years on this earth I think she's earned the right to creak a bit. Even if it does cause minor cardiac episodes in the chest of her owner.
After an hour or so of this, I put down my book, tidy up a bit downstairs. Load the dishwasher, wipe down the high chair. Grab the cast iron skillet out of the kitchen cabinet and carry it upstairs with me.
I wash up in the bathroom, change into my pajamas. Nestle the skillet into Derek's side of the bed.
I really feel at this point that I should explain something. I don't have a weird skillet fetish. This piece of cookware just happens to be my weapon of choice- I need something in reaching distance when an intruder takes advantage of Derek's absence and breaks into the house. We don't have any guns, and knives are out -our children often climb into the bed to wake me up in the morning. Plus cast iron has a nice, reassuring heft to it. I need two hands to lift it any higher than shoulder- height, (I had to practice, didn't I?) so it's pretty heavy.
I may or may not have read Fried Green Tomatoes At The Whistle Stop Cafe one too many times.
And seen the movie once or twice.
But I promise, if I ever do whack the boogie man over the head with my skillet, I will not chop him up and serve him to you barbeque-style.
Although I do think Head Country barbeque sauce could make just about anything taste good. Maybe the secret really is in the sauce.
I did not end up having to use the skillet in a defensive capacity. Derek returned home, and I returned the pan to the cabinet, where it will stay until I make an apple cake.
Or my husband leaves again.