Why is everything better cooked in cast iron?
I used Hans’ inherited cast iron pan pretty much every day from January to May. I don’t know why I didn’t start before then. It sears and browns and tenderises and texturises like no other. It does it all. And it is always delicious.
So often a meal is made simply by chopping, browning, and simmering. Leftover tomato sauce of ratatouille becomes shakshouka. A few sad-looking or half-used veggies become a bright, dynamic beast. And an egg poached right in there, I’ve learned, never, ever hurts. Same with toasted crusty bread.
This particular night, it was white sweet potato, orange bell pepper, escarole, and pepitas.
For a good few weeks we had this big knob of ginger in the fridge; I was on this bent where for almost every salad I made a dressing of minced ginger, tahini, olive oil, apple cider vinegar, a splash of water, salt, and lemon pith if we had it.
It coated every green and every root and not one of them was worse off.
Meals in May came to exist on the front stoop. Twilight descended more and more slowly and we pulled off layers of leisure in the gloaming.
I will miss that pan.