FRYING PANS
Standing at the stove. The kitchen is lit up, brightness shows my lack of cleaning as dust and dirt highlight the windows as the sun creeps over the south side hills. I'm staring down at the frying pan, a small 7 inch, very blackened pan. I thought `where did you come from`? There are so many, stacked like pancakes or cookbooks. In each pan are stories and recipes, lost only to be imagined as I take a different one out each day.
Maybe a dented saute pan that knew of the brilliance of a young cook, starting out. Or, the battered cast iron, the bottomed heat ringed, maybe burnt out like the cook who perhaps, went on to be a well known chef or like most toiled for years at a low end station never to move up as life got in the way.
Pans burnished with heat, pitted beyond repair hiding that favourite recipe, that best shift. Each one waiting for a turn at steamed mussels, or a strip steak seared hard and quick. Each pan, a crusted or dented journey, a pan seared life, the stalwarts of the kitchens and galleys..Flamed out maybe or better yet, the art of the scramble.
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