Cast iron, well seasoned

I can’t remember the context now as it was well over a year ago when we spoke of it, but he was lamenting the inability to have nice pans at home as his partner didn’t give a fuck about preserving surfaces. Additional insult to the proverbial pans of the relationship is that – as I gathered – she cared very much for surface appearance, but not for edge of where one thing actually meets another.

He likes to cook, and I definitely imagined him stirring things. He stirs while speaking loudly, making references I would surely pick up – were it not for how much distracted amusement I get from listening to the cadence of his voice in varied accents. Theater friends were kind to him.

The frying pan is out on the stove top even though he isn’t cooking now. It is enormous and weighty. It is black with beautifully seasoned care. It hovers around where the fire breathes and has no fear. I am certain nothing sticks.

A lot of time has passed. I lot of feelings were flash burned leaving some marks. “Maybe it is because I am nervous,” he said.

Don’t be nervous. I pay attention to surfaces, even the ones poorly seasoned. I occasionally fuck up and use the wrong tool for the job because I am extra intent on not burning shit to the ground. For the vast majority of meals though, I can be sure there is enough oil, I know the temperature is right, and I hold that massive weight with one hand and toss its contents gently to even tenderness. The other hand can be used for whatever your heart desires.

All of that though, doesn’t provide proper salve for deep burns, does it?

If we burn this meal, no biggie. They deliver anything now, and we don’t even have to put all our clothes on to answer the door.


This is all cooked with a sweetness, but also, don’t forget. I can use that frying pan one handed to end shit too. (She jokes…mostly.)

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