The BP long read, musing on the past, present, and future of our pans.
It all started with a broken pan. Here we were, along the edge of the Chesapeake Bay, and there it sat, on the ground before us. “A black pan,” as our grandmother, Estee, used to nonchalantly call it—a 10-inch, unmarked hunk of cast iron that held little if any value, except of course, that it was hers—nearly split in two.
Here at Butter Pat, we love a good story. The kind that stick in our craw, that lean us back in our chairs, or leave us slapping our knees. That we listen to intently over cocktails, or tell with gusto around the campfire. They’re usually the long, rambling, roundabout ones that make us slow down and stay awhile. Introducing, the Shaggy Dog