The grandfather cooked me the same breakfast everyday as a child: fried eggs and red wienies, cooked in a cast iron skillet, and dry toast. Before his heart surgery, he’d pour the leftover grease into a coffee tin that sat beside the stove for use another day. It was elaborate by no stretch of the imagination, but it was, and still is, one of my favorite meals. He’s gone now, but the coffee tin still sits on the kitchen counter unused. I know now that a rusted coffee tin is the perfect place to keep a childhood.