Cast Iron

I pull the little cast iron skillet out of my cupboard several times a week. It's often left on the stove by one of the kids for me to clean or nestled inside the other larger skillets in the cupboard. With such a big family, you would think I never use it, it's so little. But it gets a lot of attention. And every time I see it and handle it, stir fry something in it, clean it and oil it, I am reminded.

Reminded of a time long ago, before children, a husband, Christ. A time of singleness and loneliness and struggle. I was out of college and working long hours in a low-paying job, barely making ends meet and always hungry.

Reminded of a time in high school, and of my French teacher. Mme H was a truly lovely, classy lady. She was always dressed in flowing, ethereal clothes and wore funky, unique jewelry. She was genuine and down to earth, kind and intelligent. I loved having her as a teacher and as an advisor. I have forgotten about many of my teachers, but she is one I will never forget. Beneath all the ladylike class was a strong woman, one that commanded respect; you did not misbehave in her classroom. She would not raise her voice- she didn't need to- but she let her displeasure be known, and we would feel terrible, not because we got into trouble, but that we had disappointed her.

Reminded of the lazy summer afternoons I spent at my best friend's house, who happened to be Mme H's daughter. The modest house was cozy and always welcoming; it was a second home to me for many years. The house bore Mme H's touch everywhere you turned. I loved that house.

And during that time of singleness and loneliness and struggle, I found myself with nowhere to go for Christmas. Not enough time off and not enough money to fly home, I faced a holiday alone. But when Mme H and my best friend found out, I was invited to spend Christmas with them. I was included in everything as if I were part of the family. Christmas dinner at Mme H's mother's house; I can still taste it (the lime jello salad!) I experienced true Southern hospitality at its finest.

Then came the time to exchange gifts. I probably brought some trifle for my hostess; I don't recall. But Mme H handed me a brand new cast iron skillet filled with cheeses and sausage and crackers and candies. Food. And something to cook in. Food for my body, surely, but whether she realized it or not, she handed me food for my soul. She had spent years quietly influencing me, encouraging me, setting an example of womanliness, but the skillet and all it contained was a tangible picture for me; a token of all that she had done for me and all that she meant to me.

I took the skillet home and ate everything in it. And I cooked in it proudly because it was mine, and not my roommate's. Over time, it lost its new grey look and became a lovely, shiny black.  And I thought of her every time I used it.

It's followed me on all my moves and has been a faithful tool in my kitchen. But all that it represents and all the memories it invokes are with me when I cook in it, when I clean it, when I oil it.  Mme H passed away years ago, and I mourned deeply. I remember exactly where I was and what I was doing when I heard the news of her passing. I'm not sure if I ever told her just how special she was to me; I probably didn't. Her daughter and I are still friends after all these years, and she now looks so much like her mother; she is like her mother inside and out: lovely and classy, kind and intelligent.

I wouldn't part with this skillet for anything.

For Mme H and her lovely daughter, who I count among my oldest and dearest friends, MB.