My grandmother’s cast iron skillet. I remember cooking breakfast with it. I’d pour in the Crisco oil, about an inch deep, and crack the eggs on the side, trying to use just enough force to crack them open without breaking the yolks or having the shell fall into the oil. The eggs weren’t so much fried as poached in oil. I’d get the oil too hot and it would splatter as I dropped in the eggs. They always ended up with the crispy lace edges. My brother’s skillet specialty was bacon, really crispy bacon. Ah, if skillets could only talk . . .