As I rummaged through the half-dozen dust-covered boxes, I began to lose confidence in my memory.

“I’m sure it was here,” I silently assured myself as I sorted through all manner of dissimilar things I had only a vague recollection of shoving into a pair of grocery store tote bags. Newspapers interleaving a spice rack that I didn’t recognize; a few cloth-covered books I wondered why I’d saved from the trash; and a footed, butcher block cutting board that brought me instantly into the first kitchen I had ever known – my parents’.

Where was the skillet?

All summer I had been talking about the cast-iron frying pan I had spirited away to save for posterity.

I don’t know what made me think one of my children would be more........

© The Saratogian