I ordered a Lodge cast-iron frying pan and it arrived today via Amazon, crammed in a cardboard box and cradling a Haruki Murakami hardcover like literature destined for deliciousness. I ordered the book partially because I wanted it and partially because it tipped my total order into free shipping territory, saving me a good $15 on a utensil as dense and weighty as a bowling ball. The pan I ordered because I always sort of wanted one and because the Times magazine last Sunday ran a bewitching recipe from 1966 for something called David Eyre’s Pancake, a cross between a crepe and a flapjack. And, you know, cooks are always going on about the miracle of their cast iron, as if it was a particularly dim and stocky yet hard-working child of theirs.
For a utensil this rugged, seemingly smithed from a block of iron the size and sturdiness of Chuck Norris, then forged in the fires of hell or South Pittsburg, Tennessee, I expected chuckwagon simplistic care and handling. But its instructions read like a babysitter’s list of dos and don’ts. Don’t use soap. Dry it thoroughly always. Apply a light coat of oil before and after. Store in a cool, arid place. And for the love of all that is holy, do not violate all of the preceding rules at once by sticking it in your dishwasher. In other words, you never want to actually clean it, just gussy it up from time to time, like superficial Stradlater in Catcher in the Rye, spic and span outside, crumby inside.
The thing has the heft of a deadly weapon, perhaps literally, as Andy Capp’s wife taught me. Since my Amazon orders arrive at work, I had to haul it home in a bag. I kind of hoped I could have prevented a mugging by winding it up and clocking someone with it.