I’ve been thinking about my iron skillet a lot lately. I miss it. It disappeared years ago when I moved with my 15-year-old daughter from Mississippi to Pennsylvania. My husband died and I no longer felt a strong connection to the South.
I left many things behind when I loaded up my Chevy Nova and headed North: a dining room table, a china cabinet and a cedar chest.
But it’s my iron skillet I long for.
I still enjoy cooking, but food cooked in my Teflon pans just doesn’t taste the same.
At one time I thought about tracking the skillet down. I asked my daughter, Julie, about it and she seemed to remember that her friend, Bob, took it with him when he moved to Florida.
