Ode To a Cast Iron Skillet

O, my cast iron skillet,
black and round
and heavy
(my lord, oh so heavy),
how you sit flat
and firm
on my stovetop,
unlike that cheap Teflon crap
that gets all wibbly wobbly
over time
and can’t fry an egg properly
if its life depended on it;

Oh, how you heat so evenly
and refuse to be lukewarm
about any recipe
I choose to cook in you,
although I can tell
cabbage and broccoli
is not your favorites,
but do you complain?
Nay, not you;

Oh, how easy in the hand you fit,
making me wonder:
if my wife ever had to
beat my brains out with you,
would she enjoy the experience better
knowing your smoothness
would not chaff
her delicate hands?;

and Oh, how relieved it is
to know you will last
a lifetime and beyond,
giving me something worthy I can pass along
to my offspring,
their inheritance, if you will,
seeing that I'm cash poor,
but cast iron rich.

O, my lovely cast iron skillet,
black and round
and heavy,
ne’er would our meals
taste the same without you,
but you already knew that.

I can tell.

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