Hot Skillet

Got tired of trail jerky and dry salt rations. I stoked the cast-iron woodstove until the firebox threw a solid orange heat across the kitchen floorboards, then dropped a heavy skillet straight onto the cooktop. Tossed a thick slab of venison onto the hot iron. The meat hissed loud, filling the quiet cabin with rich, smoking grease. Flipped it once with my pocket knife, searing the edges dark and crisp. Sat down at the stout pine table and ate slow, listening to the dry birch pop in the hearth. No grit in the teeth, no cold wind through rotten planks. Just a hot meal under my own roof.