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As I travel the Jamaican countryside I see many bright, silver aluminum pots for sale. I don't recall, however seeing a black cast iron skillet in Jamaica. These skillets are the mainstay of African- Americans since slavery times. They are our Teflon, because if they are cured properly, and coated correctly when cooking, you get the same non- stick easy to clean surface.
As members of my family have died I have become heir to the skillets. I now have about 5. The most recent one came from my mother's house. This morning I was washing about 3 of them when I noticed that the one from my mothers had layers and layers of a black deposit on the outside of the skillet (the inside being perfectly smooth like the others.
I started to contemplate how I could remove this scale, then I asked myself if it hindered or enhanced the process of cooking, and why would I bother to remove it ? (If it ain't broke, why try to fix it?).
I ran my hand over the scale, and realized that it represented many meals cooked by my grandmother, and then my mother, or maybe even further back than that. who knows? So, this morning I felt their spirit, the fried chicken, the slab pork bacon, the cornbread baked in the oven all crusty brown, the eggs scrambled for a husband going off to work, the yeast rolls rising on the stove to go in the oven later…food from a time when women really cooked. I decided never to remove one bit of the scale, it is my legacy, my heritage, my fore-mothers talking to me from beyond.
I wondered when I die if my daughter will even realize what these skillets mean. Will they become part of a massive garage sale, and then she will return to her life in Tokyo? That will be her choice, she has her turn on this earth. But for now, I washed them, and turned them lovingly together into the rack to dry and realized that I have been the lucky recipient of a rich history indeed.
As members of my family have died I have become heir to the skillets. I now have about 5. The most recent one came from my mother's house. This morning I was washing about 3 of them when I noticed that the one from my mothers had layers and layers of a black deposit on the outside of the skillet (the inside being perfectly smooth like the others.
I started to contemplate how I could remove this scale, then I asked myself if it hindered or enhanced the process of cooking, and why would I bother to remove it ? (If it ain't broke, why try to fix it?).
I ran my hand over the scale, and realized that it represented many meals cooked by my grandmother, and then my mother, or maybe even further back than that. who knows? So, this morning I felt their spirit, the fried chicken, the slab pork bacon, the cornbread baked in the oven all crusty brown, the eggs scrambled for a husband going off to work, the yeast rolls rising on the stove to go in the oven later…food from a time when women really cooked. I decided never to remove one bit of the scale, it is my legacy, my heritage, my fore-mothers talking to me from beyond.
I wondered when I die if my daughter will even realize what these skillets mean. Will they become part of a massive garage sale, and then she will return to her life in Tokyo? That will be her choice, she has her turn on this earth. But for now, I washed them, and turned them lovingly together into the rack to dry and realized that I have been the lucky recipient of a rich history indeed.
It makes the bestess oxtail and fry chicken even though I have burn marks to attest to the oil splatter on my hands. Ahhhhh memories of that market in the hills of jamaica. Stuff like pssssssst nice white girl come patronize me na 
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