For Christmas I was lucky to receive the skillet (and I don't exaggerate as I write this) of my dreams. Over the past few years I've got'n right fed up of wobbly pan bottoms and flaky non-stick coatings (non-stick - yur telling me) and have had my mind set on something solidly indestructible. 'The Victor' was that very vision. It's a solid, cast iron, no shit talkin' bit of ironmongery. I could imagine Ma Ingalls or Loretta Lynn making a very happy co-habitation with it. The label said it was pre-seasoned and I went and daftly washed it in soapy water: "Hell no you don't!" (That was Loretta not Mrs Ingalls talking). Little rust spots soon appeared. Having read the label good and proper and a heap of somewhat contradictory internet advice, I bought myself some Trex and smoked the house out in the process. Next time I'll turn the pan upside down in the oven whilst seasoning and open the windows.
I inaugurated our skillet last weekend with Lorne sausage and fried eggs and boy did they turn out just fine. I can tell we are gonna be good friends. Cleaning is now done with a still warm pan, hot water only and a soft scourer before towel drying. There she is hanging-up with my new oven mitts (£2.95 each, in the Anthropologie sale) and Poachpods. I'm a little wary of new fangled kitchen gadgetry but I'd been eyeing these up these silicone egg-poachers for hmm, a couple of years. They eventually made it onto my Santa list and were gratefully received. We now own four.
