the cast iron skillet

Some of the best fried chicken I ever had was at Grandad and Carolyn's house. It was home cooked, but not by Grandad or Carolyn. It was made by their cleaning lady. I think it must have been the summer we took the train to Chicago where Carolyn picked us up. I have this vague memory of having to go the wrong way to Martinsburg to catch the train, then later passing by the way we had just come. Another indistinct memory of the trip is of factories, smoke and flames as we passed Gary, Indiana on the approach to Chicago. It was roads, bridges and steel structures, with a sooty darkness and a chemical smell that seeped into the train. It was like things we'd seen in movies, but real. It was an exciting journey for two young boys alone. But back to Racine. When the cleaning lady came, we were away, perhaps running some errands, and I'm pretty sure, picking up some kringle on the way home. She was nearly done for the day when we returned. She was just straightening up in the kitchen, and there was a cast iron skillet of the most perfect looking fried chicken sitting on the stove and a delectable smell of good cooking in the air. She seemed almost apologetic that she was still there when we arrived. To me then, she was an older woman, but now, looking back, perhaps she was in her forties or fifties. She was black, and had kitchen gloves on, an apron and a dress with flowers on it, nothing out of place, very well put together and proper. Along with her immaculate neatness, she had the look of a very warm and caring person, but she had a certain coldness towards us as she quickly finished up. I don't recall if Carolyn then took her home, or someone arrived to pick her up, but I have the impression she didn't have a car at the house. I noticed how clean and tidy everything in the house was. It wasn't ever dirty or unorganized, but there was an aura of professional cleanliness hovering over the house. Everything had a clean smell and there was no speck of dust or smudge anywhere. Before long, even though the sheen of clean was like a forcefield which encouraged the use of coasters and napkins, my brother and I soon smudged and smeared things back to normal. We had the fried chicken for dinner, warmed up, with something on the side I don't remember. Kentucky Fried Chicken up until then had been the pinnacle of my fried chicken experience, but this fried chicken was on another level. Even after being warmed up, it was perfectly crispy on the outside and succulent, tender and juicy on the inside. The Colonel's blend of secret herbs and spices had nothing on whatever magic formula this woman had used. It was a subtle blend that seemed to bring out the flavor of the chicken. We enjoyed it very much and I think everyone at the table would have eaten another piece, but we'd finished all of it. During our extended summer visit, we hoped to have the chicken again but it never came to pass. I think the day the cleaning lady came again, we were out doing something or other and didn't see her and the cast iron skillet was sadly not left on the stove when we got back home. Thinking back on it now, there seemed to be some uncomfortableness around the cleaning lady, as if we weren't supposed to have encountered her. I had no idea why that could have been back then. My mother had hired a cleaning lady at home for a time, perhaps more as a favor to an acquaintance who needed the work, and it seemed a normal thing to us. We thought it was pretty cool at home to have slightly fewer cleaning chores for that period, and anything that would help ensure we weren't burdened with cleaning chores during our summer vacation was a-okay in our book.