Читать книгу All the Wild Hungers - Karen Babine - Страница 19

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AGNES IS THE COLOR of risk, the risk of taking a chance on a thrift store skillet and entering a new world of wonder. I used to be afraid of cast iron, the idea that it is hard to use, hard to maintain, and What’s the point when Teflon exists? We grew up with aluminum and that’s what I knew: my grandmother’s WearEver became mine when she moved into assisted living and my mother’s Club is still in use after forty years. Cast iron—and Agnes—is nothing I know, but I find myself addicted. I think, If I can’t do it in the skillet, what’s the point? I learn how to bake cakes in the skillet, cobblers, pannekoeken, clafouti, eggs, hash, and the possibilities become delightfully endless. Building up the seasoning isn’t hard when it’s part of my routine: a wash, a dry, back on a warm burner to make sure the remaining water has evaporated, and then a thin swipe of oil. Agnes is now cured to the point of being indestructible and it’s good to remember that. Agnes is a delicious constant in a world where nothing makes sense anymore.

There’s a legacy to the cult of cast iron that I envy in these days of trying to understand cancer, a desire I have for specialized knowledge and not having to create a world from scratch, like someone has been down this road before, because the road less traveled is not always a path worth taking. I’m new to this cast iron world, my growing collection having come from thrift stores, colorful vintage Dutch ovens of varying colors and sizes, skillets like Agnes, but it is a world I want to understand, a community I want to be a part of. It’s the equivalent of being passed down a hundred-year-old pan with seasoning like silk, the kind of long knowledge that rings with the voice of a great-grandmother you never met, the flavor of old laughter and bright pride.