There are moments in life that shift everything, even when they show up as a small mistake in the kitchen. Mine happened in Grandma Maribel’s cozy little kitchen.

“I was standing over the stove, flipping something questionable in her old cast iron skillet, when she gasped like I’d just lit the curtains on fire.”

Time seemed to stop. I froze mid-turn, spatula in hand, as she stared at the pan with sheer horror.

“You’re cooking what in there?” she asked, a mix of panic and disbelief lacing her voice.

“Tomatoes,” I said, blinking in confusion.

Before I could react, she whisked the pan away like she was rescuing a child from danger. She turned it upside down and pointed to a faint, rusty patch beginning to show through the deep black seasoning. Her face tightened with conviction.

“There are three things you don’t mess with in a cast iron pan,” she declared. “Tomatoes, delicate fish, and anything that needs boiling water. Want to ruin it? Be my guest.”

At 29, I felt five again, caught red-handed. My mistake wasn’t just culinary—it was personal. A crash course in protecting things that matter, delivered at a time when my own heart was fraying at the edges.