My grandmother has always treated her cast iron pans like heirlooms. To her, they weren’t just tools for cooking — they were vessels of memory, infused with decades of meals, laughter, and quiet moments around the table. Each skillet held a history, and she guarded them with the kind of reverence usually reserved for family photos or handwritten letters.
One afternoon, I decided to make dinner and reached for one of her pans, assuming I could cook anything in it. She walked into the kitchen, paused, and gave me a look — half amused, half alarmed.
