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make other things, too.

And so on Saturday, without much thought at all, I opened my Grandmother’s cabinet (maybe for the last time), and I pulled out her cast iron skillets. My sister chose a flat one, and I retrieved two others. I also pulled a pink apron off of a wall peg and picked up an orchid on the verge of blooming that I plan to call “Glory Bell” for my Aunt Gloria.

“I’m good,” I said, touching the smooth iron of one of the skillets with my fingertips and wondering how many pounds of cornmeal it had cooked in its lifetime.

And then we left and locked the door behind us.

The walls, drawers, shelves, and cabinets in that old farmhouse are filled with hundreds of memories and dozens of inexpensive, but priceless, treasures that remind me of a time, long ago, when I was constantly reminded to behave, wash up for supper, bow my head for the blessing, and most of all, that I was loved — unconditionally.

As for the cast iron skillets, well, my sister tried her hand at lacy cornbread last night. She sent me photos that brought a smile to my face. I think I’ll cook buttermilk biscuits tonight in one of the skillets I salvaged. Cast iron makes everything taste better — and there is certainly magic in the cast iron skillets from my grandmother’s home. I hope my biscuits taste like hers.

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