I can tell you how I came by each one.

The big one in the middle and the griddle came from my ex-husband’s grandmother who lived well into her nineties, probably the best legacy his family left me. The skillet cooks a mean cornbread, crispy edges and all, but it also fries up chicken legs and fresh crappie, probably thousands of batches over the course of its life thus far.

(Side note: always fry on the stovetop in an iron skillet or Dutch oven. I am most certain there is some Bible verse in Leviticus stating such and if not then maybe there should be.)

I’m still perfecting cooking with the griddle. It gets hot quickly and will scorch a pancake in seconds, but it puts a finely browned crust on the bottom of a sizable making of cat head biscuits.

The No. 5 and No. 6 on the left came from somewhere up north, compliments of my mother-in-law from one of her travels many years ago. The woman knew me well. Both skillets are Griswolds, stamped with the block logo and made in Erie, PA sometime before 1957 and which today sell on eBay as collectors’ items.

They also scramble eggs and fry okra.

My skillets don’t just hang on the wall as a decoration or a tribute to times past, although I have to say that they look dang good on that renovated pallet, my name emblazoned in white script at the top. But they feel even better when I’m gripping the handle with a potholder as I turn one to the side to drain hot grease off some ground beef.

The other little No. 5 in the upper right hand corner came from Highway Pickers on 157 just west of Cullman. The lady running the booth where I got the skillet was selling things from her in-laws’ place. She was a mighty talker. I halfway bought the skillet because I wanted another one that size, and halfway because I wanted to get away from the lady.

And if I’m being honest, I felt a little sorry for the skillet. That lady could have given a lonesome skillet a home in her place or at her children’s or with other family members.

Maybe they’re not a family of cookers.

Maybe they could use the money more than another random No. 5 skillet.

Maybe she didn’t like her in-laws.

So I gave it a home as I would a stray dog, all for the bargain price of $10.00 and a little more chit-chat with the lady, and there it hangs with the others, ready to do service for me and my family.

I sometimes wonder which of my daughters will end up with the skillets, or will they get rid of them as easily as did the lady? Will they fight over them? Will they use them? Will they let them rust in the sink while trying to soak out some crusty, stuck-on remnants of fried squash? Will they take them to the Hannah Home box and toss them in sacrilegiously?

For now, I will care for my skillets as I have since they have been entrusted to my care, and I will cook dinner with my daughters. They will learn how to work wonders with bacon grease and White Lily flour. They will keep the traditions of cast iron cooking arts alive and well, but more than that, they will learn what it is to be family, the bond strengthened by cooking up some blueberry pancakes on a lazy Saturday morning.

There’s one more skillet hanging on the wall. I received it during last year’s Valentine’s Day from my sweetheart along with a Reese’s Pieces cookie mix. Maybe I should hang it in the middle to serve as the central connection for all the others, for truly what they mean to me is nothing short of love. All those homegrown Southern chefs whom I have witnessed using the noble iron skillet have left a legacy filled with more than just what they cooked up and served for Sunday dinner.

It’s about family. It’s about being together. It’s about making memories.

And love is at the center of it all.

So I will grab a can of Crisco, grease up a No. 6, and pass on what I know.