Cast Iron

My friend Kim, in Florida, works cast iron, makes molds, pours molten metal. In the mail from him today was a truly lovely cast iron skillet. I cook almost entirely in cast iron, have quite the collection (I have four corn-stick pans) but nothing like this. The edges are decorative, almost like a flower unfolding. Never imagined such a thing. I'm curing it now, started a small fire in the cookstove, nearly filled it with oil, will leave it in the over overnight. Found a lid that fits down inside it nicely, so it will become my basted egg skillet. My favorite way of frying eggs, pat of butter, two eggs, a scant teaspoon of vermouth, put the lid on, perfect. I had been using a six-inch skillet, but it was slightly too large, and this is a five-inch. The handle is perfect shaped and grooved to fit the hand. Just counted, this skillet brings my total cast-iron cooking vessels to 20. The largest two are an oval pan, with a lid that doubles as a griddle, long enough to cook an entire pork loin, 18 inches, and a lidded casserole that's six quarts. Another new piece I found recently in an abandoned shack, needs some work, but it's a four quart and there was no lid, ten inch diameter, and I found a tight-fitting pyrex lid at the Goodwill for a dollar. Oh, and the new skillet is right-handed; pour-spouts, right and left sides. Bad rusty cast iron you clean in a lye solution, not too strong, then scrub like hell and file off things if you need to. Sand-blasting is good, with ground walnut shells; for cookware, then I like to treat the outside in a separate step, wipe on oil, no dribbles, then overnight in the oven, low temp, on a rack above a throw-away pie tin. One could, I suppose, combine the last two steps, but I've always found it difficult to be both outside and inside at the same time. I have friends that swear it's possible. But being a doubting Thomas, I try and stick to one thing at a time. Chansons de geste, Roland specifically, because there hadn't been anything other than classics that had been copied up until then. This is the beginning of creative writing, if you don't count the Greeks and Romans, but you know what I mean, the modern leap, this was 1180, I think, don't trust me for dates. Kim had sent me an email, -not seasoned, open in the presence of others- I knew it was either a very special spoon or a piece of cast-iron. He'd build me a brick wall, if I ask him, bricks better than anyone I've actually seen, there's almost a narrative line to the coursing. When I hefted the package, I knew it was iron. Hey. I know the difference between wood and iron. It strikes me suddenly, I actually do know the difference. I don't want a metal, I will not appear, I'll send someone else. Most people want to be remembered, a tombstone that would be, not what actually happened. Granted, I watch this from the woods, still, the separation might be important. TImes I don't know what I want, even though I think about this often. Where am I in all this. Merely another proud, you, responding


Tom





ming.. I have an idea.