Summer/Fall 2015

By Tim A. Rutherford

            I was not born with a silver spoon in my mouth. Instead, I discovered, I had been ushered into life with a cast iron fry pan in my hand.

            That pan, a No. 8 Griswold fry pan marked “Erie,” was my inheritance. It had been my introduction to cooking. By the time it came to live at my house, it had been the vessel that prepared hundreds of meals, helped fill the bellies of four generations and had developed an obsidian-black patina – slick, non-stick and perfectly seasoned.

            The pan had been a gift from my great-grandmother to my grandmother on her wedding day. It passed to my mother when she set up housekeeping and when I left home, it joined me in a trek across the Midwest. The pan I learned to cook in – bacon and eggs when I was 4 – now whipped up breakfast for young ladies I entertained in college. Pan-fried chicken sealed the deal on a marriage proposal. Homemade cornbread – a pone of yellow decadence – popped out picture perfect to entertain guests at New Year’s Day Hoppin’ John lunches.

            It traveled with me to campsites. Over a wood fire it pan fried fish, bakes beans and birthed peach cobbler that my taste buds declared better than oven-baked. Back at home, it fried pork chops, lightly dusted with flour and fresh black pepper. There was no better pan for coaxing a roux into milk gravy than the No. 8. Its thick bottom kept the gravy hot at the table while I plucked biscuits from another No. 8 hot from the oven. Yes, I added a twin, and then a third No. 8 over the years.

            Pan-frying chicken in the No. 8 uses less lard than deep frying but requires patience and constant attention. Frying chicken in small batches, one side at a time, creates utter gastronomic perfection. The layer of breading becomes mahogany-colored and the skin is rendered crackling good. This layer is where a cook shines with a blend of seasonings that gives his chicken its signature flavors: Spicy, savory or simply well-balanced with salt and black pepper. All the while, the meat in heating, cooking through and being sealed inside the crisp coating. The first bite releases a steamy, fragrant ah-ha moment that is the hallmark for blue ribbon winning fried chicken.

            In return, a No 8 requires little in return. Let it cool and wipe it clean with a paper towel. If, forbid, something did stick, toss in some Kosher salt and use it as an abrasive to smooth out the surface. Should a neophyte massacre your No. 8 and clean away the seasoning, rub your old friend with vegetable oil and place it in a hot oven to re-season. No. 8 is forgiving – and giving.

            The journey with my Griswold No. 8 has been a culinary odyssey. Still, I cannot recreate my grandmother’s fried apple pies. The secret to her paper thin, hand-rolled dough is lost to the ages. What I am left with is the memory of the flavors and the textures. I am awash in recollections of family meals served just feet away from the stovetop, freshly fried pork chops or chicken being plated mere seconds after being fried. The stories that swirled around the table are as vivid today as they were in that simpler time.

            This basic, somewhat crude cooking vessel is a treasured connection to those memories and more. Gazing into its inky black surface, I see a time machine, a recorder of life’s events and a passageway to undiscovered adventures. This old pan and I have sailed past rites of passage, happy times, troubled times and day in, day out experiences made better, not with a silver spoon, but with a cast iron fry pan.