Today, I’m sharing a story that’s particularly close to my heart – my very own skillet story. It’s a story rooted deep within my heart, one that speaks of inheritance and tradition, of love passed down through generations. So, settle in, dear friends, as I recount the journey of my cherished iron skillet from my mother’s hands to mine.
Back in the 1970s, In the southeastern corner of Oklahoma, where the sun burns like fire, and the redbud trees and the daffodils bloom wild and free, there stands a house where the kitchen bore a treasure: Momma’s old cast iron skillet.
Every summer of my youth, we’d prepare for our grand road trips – the rural stretches of Southern Oklahoma, where the Kiamichi mountains meet the horizon, and Broken Bow Lake glistens under the sun, we would awaken to Dad’s twinkling eyes hinting at a surprise. These surprises took the form of impromptu road trips, no concrete destination, just us and the open road, the beautiful Oklahoma sky reflected in the car’s rearview mirror. Our excitement bubbled not just from the thrill of the unexpected journey but from the promise of the roadside picnic lunches, mainly the fried chicken and potato salad, waiting in the car trunk, prepared lovingly by our Momma’s skilled hands.
With a grace that could put any French chef to shame, Momma would place that cast iron skillet on our old avocado green GE stovetop. Then came the chicken, baptized in buttermilk and lovingly coated with flour and a bit of salt and pepper. The skillet sizzled, and the kitchen filled with an aroma so divine it could rival the smell of the sweetest honeysuckle blossoms. As the crispy, golden pieces of fried chicken piled up, it was hard not to sneak a crunchy – or two. A fight always ensued over who would get the pulley bone.
But it wasn’t just fried chicken. No, sir. That cast iron skillet was a wellspring of Southern comfort. It birthed the finest cornbread, crispy around the edges and soft in the middle, that crumbled perfectly into bowls of homemade soup or pinto beans. It conjured up tantalizingly sweet chocolate pies that’d make you close your eyes and sigh at the first mouthful. That skillet was the heart of our home – our trusty friend, reliable and true.
Momma wasn’t just the cook; she was our teacher in the kitchen. With patience and love, she taught us – five sisters, all different as summer and winter – the art of Southern cooking, the gospel of that cast iron skillet. We learned how it held the heat, how to care for it, and how to respect its heft and age.
When I married and left home, my mother graced me with the grandest of gifts – an iron skillet of my own. It wasn’t new, the handle bearing the soft smoothness from the countless hands that had held it and its surface darkened by thousands of meals. It was a tangible piece of our shared history, a silent testament to the resilience and strength of our family, passed down to another generation.
That skillet, easily a good 50 years or older, was not just an object; it was the embodiment of my youth, of the lessons learned in Momma’s kitchen, of the ties that bind and the love that endures. Each time I cook with it, I’m reminded of home, of Momma’s hands guiding mine, of the scent of fried chicken wafting through our kitchen. It’s more than a skillet; it’s a treasure – a connection to the past and a promise of meals yet to come.
It’s said that life is a long journey, filled with twists and turns, and I guess that’s true. But along the way, I carry with me the lessons from that old iron skillet. It’s not just about cooking; it’s about patience, love, and tradition – it’s about home. Because no matter where I go, every time I hear the sizzle of the skillet, I’m home again, basking in the love and warmth of my Momma’s kitchen.
Do you have a skillet story? Here at the Rustic Skillet, we’re all ears. Feel free to share yours here!
