Saving the Skillet

Leaving cast iron to air-dry with water pooling in the basin is an open invitation for rust and an insult to three generations of proper seasoning. Someone had rinsed the heavy black skillet and walked away, leaving three stubborn droplets clinging to the metal like loafers on a street corner. I climbed onto the cool stovetop, planted my sneakers against the iron rim, and grabbed the corner of a dry waffle-weave dish towel. With two firm, circular rubs of my palms, I buffed the surface until the dark patina was bone-dry and respectable again. Iron will outlive us all, provided people stop treating it like cheap tin.