In Class - Cast Iron Skillet

There's something about cast iron skillets. I don't think anyone knows exactly what it is, but there's definitely an appeal. Maybe it's the way memories of meals build up as a greasy black crust of seasoning on the pan bottom. Or it could be the significant, reassuring heft of the pan. It could be the trace amounts of iron leached into each meal. Most people don't get enough.
Anyways, I lived with my brother for a year and in his immense ignorance, he ran my skillets through the washing machine. Never wash a cast iron skillet in the machine. Ever. Memories removed, my skillet looked up at me from the bottom rack of that machine through a layer of rust. It hurt me to see my skillet, which I had been cooking with for seven years, stripped of its greasy patina. I removed it from the rack immediately, scrubbing angrily with a brillow pad. There was only one way to replace those layers lost and make myself feel better at the same time. I had to fry immense amounts of bacon in this pan. After a thorough scrubbing and a few rinses, I began. The skillet sat hungrily preheating as I removed the entire slab of bacon from it's packaging. I was cooking all of it after all. I fried piece after piece, periodically draining the bacon grease out so it would quit popping in my face. As I was cooking the last four pieces, my brother returned home. I stood cooking bacon as I cussed him for wrecking my pans. After a thorough scolding, convinced his ignorance was sincere and that he wasn't intentionally ruining my things, we shared a gigantic plate of bacon and watched TV together. From there my memory is clouded with bacon, but I believe I took a nap.