Tuesday, May 27, 2014

It’s a Crock

Irving Naxton was a hero, nay, a saint.  To this day I praise him.  He deserves a shrine, and I’ve made him one, of sorts, in my kitchen.  The icon of his greatness, a shining trophy of fire engine red porcelain topped by domed glass, sits upon my countertop.  Next to it is the holy word writ in large print for my increasingly crappy vision.  Ah, Irving.  Blessed art thou among men, for you grant us gallons of goodness.  From you comes the harvest plentiful, upon which we fill our bellies.  It is you who makes the leftovers fresh again, you who brings forth abundance with which to fill my freezer to bursting with sealable containers of righteous flavor.

Thank you Irving for the slow cooker, aka the Crock Pot.
AKA, Mommy's At The End of Her Rope But Will Still Feed You

Mine never leaves the countertop.  I’m in love with my 6-gallon beast, for which I never begrudge all the space it takes up.  How can I?  It sits there and takes all the stuff I dump into it, transforming it into sumptuous stew or satisfying soup.  At least, that’s what I call these things in front of my family.
You have to love the slow cooker. It’s so convenient.  It’s so easy. I empty out my fridge and walk away for hours to do the important things (like surf the ‘net, watch an episode of Stargate Atlantis, or stare blankly into space because my brain has gotten stuck in standby mode again).  Even better, it makes tons of the stuff that I can freeze and then thaw out when I’m too lazy to use even the Crock Pot.
It’s like Saint Irving looked into the future and saw me sitting there with the typical blank look on my face.  I imagine him saying, “How can I make this useless lump even more uselessly lumpy?  She needs more time to drool.”  And lo, the slow cooker was born.
When I do get ambitious, there is my bible – the slow cooker cookbook – to turn me into a domestic diva.  It has actual edible concoctions with real names:  Buffalo Chicken Chili was on today’s menu. 
Made with the finest stuff found at the back of the fridge.
A thought-out list of ingredients, even healthful sometimes, await my crock’s magical touch.  Sometimes there are even two, count ‘em, TWO bits of directions beneath that list.  Yes, I can go beyond dumping chicken, veggies, and herbs into my cauldron and setting it on HIGH or LOW.  Sometimes I get to add a topping after all the rest has cooked into a goopy, juicy mishmash of now unidentifiable parts.  Let the good times roll. 
Turn off the TV, gang, and come into the dining room tonight.  Mom’s been cooking. Sort of.


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