Ode to a Dead Crockpot

When asked to name the five things they’d save in a house fire, most people include pictures, people, and pets. But why doesn’t anyone say, “the house”? After all, the question doesn’t imply that the house is ill-fated, just on fire.

But for foodies like me, a more intriguing twist on this thought-provoker would be, “What five things would you save in a kitchen fire?”

Major appliances are out. As are small kitchen tools. (Spatulas are a dime-a-dozen.) Beloved recipe books might make the list. An inherited serving dish perhaps. The KitchenAid mixer, of course.

But what about the crockpot?

Yes, the crockpot. That unwieldy beast that’s taking up far too much room in your cupboard.

I hate lifting my crockpot. I hate programming my crockpot. I hate cleaning my crockpot. Or at least I did until one day its underappreciated programmable panel refused to light.

Suddenly and without warning, my crockpot died. Oh, I tried to resuscitate it. When I grew weary, I called Mr. Starlet in for a consult. We even performed emergency surgery. In the end, my crockpot lay in pieces, the meal inside festered in its salmonella-laden juices.

As Mr. Starlet and I grieved over our now ruined dinner plans and considered taking legal action against whomever had so poorly prepared it for our recent move, I realized that I had not just lost my crockpot. No, I had lost my faithful friend. My sous-chef. My go-to on a busy day. My silent supporter of culinary sloth.

With great reverence, we moved its pieces to our garage and then, a few days later, to the garbage can. All the while, we wondered how we could ever replace this beloved appliance.

By going to Target, of course. Which we did that afternoon.

And while I’ll spare you from drawing comparisons between pulling the new crockpot out of its box to a rebirth of my love for all things crock, I’ll just say that my crockpot is on my list of five thing to save in a house fire.

But only if there’s time to run back in after carrying my KitchenAid mixer to safety.

Discovering the Fetal Position

Moments in which I’ve felt like a domestic diva are few and far between.

I’m only mildly embarrassed when a visiting friend’s toddler picks up a dust bunny from the kitchen floor and asks her mother with great concern to identify the strange object. And green, gelatinous sludge from the avocado pie that went to rot in the garage refrigerator made the move with us.

However, there are some glorious moments in my past that have, at least temporarily, defined me as a homemaker extraordinaire. Such as when my husband marveled at the “Rocky Road Mallow Blooms” I concocted one evening. With extreme deference, he asked, “Are you sure you want me to eat one?”

Saturday saw yet another proverbial feather added to my diva apron when by 9:00 a.m. I had baked two dozen Chocolate Chip, Pecan, and Coconut Cookies and cooked a stack of nearly perfect Sour Cream Pancakes.



While my KitchenAid mixer was mixing the batter, I was whisking together the pancake ingredients. While I was dropping mounds of cookie dough onto the baking sheet, the pancake griddle was warming. While the cookies were baking, I was flipping pancakes precisely 1 minute after first pouring the batter on the hot, buttered griddle.

I was in my element.

After devouring the pancakes and speculating that they were possibly better than IHOP’s specialties, we delivered the cookies to our new neighbors, The Wraps.

My stride was confident. My chest puffed with pride. My smile bright. I was confident that they would enjoy the cookies as much as had. (We had to sample a few to make they were edible, of course.)

Until The Wrap's eldest tried a cookie, made a face, and stood at the side of the driveway, pulling out all of the chopped pecans. He then declared that the cookies were too hard for his younger brother to eat. And he didn’t ask for another.

As much as I wanted to defend my cookie to this future Gordon Ramsay, I decided it was best not to get into a petty argument with someone a third my age. Instead, Mr. Starlet tried to make light of the situation by assuring me that if they truly didn’t like the cookies, “they can just throw them away.”

Soon after, I discovered that the fetal position is quite comfortable.

Going Giddy

Few inanimate objects make me as giddy at my KitchenAid mixer. I coveted it for years. I publicly and frequently swore that if Mr. Starlet and I were to ever become engaged, a KitchenAid mixer would be the first item added to our registry. We did. It was.

But the obsession didn’t end there. Oh no.

When Mr. Starlet and I prepared to buy our first home in Shelby, I critiqued every house we toured with one question in mind:

“Will the color of the kitchen counter tops complement my Empire Red KitchenAid mixer?”

Eventually, we purchased a home with brilliant black granite countertops. Then we sold it. Now my mixer sits on nondescript Corian. My mixer and I are a bit depressed by this.

We’re seeking therapy.

Together.

Today’s session was homemade whipped cream. It’s quite simple, actually.

Two ingredients: whipping cream and sugar.

Add them together. Whip until peaks form. My mixer performed beautifully.

And then I needed an intervention. What to do with all that light and airy whipped cream?

4:30 p.m. is definitely too early for Rocky Road ice cream. We haven’t any cookies in the house. And just when I considered dipping prunes—desperate times do call for desperate measures—my eyes settled upon one of Mr. Starlet’s favorite food groups: Vanilla Wafers.

Add a dollop of cream to the backside of a wafer. Put another wafer on top and voila: Vanilla Wafer Cream Sandwiches. Simple, sweet, and without the guilt of Rocky Road ice cream.

If Mr. Starlet wants to see his Vanilla Wafers, he should hurry home soon. My mixer and I are making great progress…

When Cookies Go Flat

When Mr. Starlet decided that he could not palette ice cream for dessert for the umpteenth day in a row, he asked for cookies. Normally, this request would send me gleefully running to the kitchen.

This particular evening, however, I turned the tables on him. If he wanted cookies, he had to make them. I had a promise to fulfill within the next 12 hours, most of which I intended to spend sleeping.

A few dilemmas arose, all of which I expertly solved. He softened the butter in the microwave, capped off the measuring cup with Splenda after the sugar ran out, and even began dropping the finished dough by teaspoonfuls onto the cookie sheet.

I was only slightly alarmed when those teeny tiny mounds of cookie dough looked like curdled soup. But when the cookies came out of the oven flatter than Wylie Coyote, the questions started flying.

Mr. Starlet: Why are these cookies so flat?

Me: I don’t know. Did you remember to add the baking soda?

Yes. Of course I remembered to add the baking soda.

Did you melt the butter or just soften it?

I softened it.

What is just soft or mostly melted?

It was softened.

[Silence as we look at each other askance .]

Maybe it’s because the baking soda is two thousand years old.

What?! The baking soda is not two thousand years old. I just bought it.

When?

Um, sometime this year.

In the spirit of Dr. Seuss, we decided that a “cookie is a cookie no matter how flat.” And we ate them.

Later, I learned that there are a number of ways he—er, we—went wrong. Apparently, softening the butter in the microwave is a big no-no. As is using all butter. (Best to use half butter, half shortening.) And our cookie sheet is not even a cookie sheet. No, a cookie sheet has only one raised side. A baking sheet has four. (Imposter!)

This is why some people only eat cookie dough.

Dinner with The Quicks

In our last home, Mr. Starlet and I entertained very little. Very little.


We had the best of intentions when expressing to friends that we'd enjoy having them over for dinner, but rarely did we follow through with an invitation. I can count on one hand the number of times we entertained family and friends.


Make that half a hand. (Although can you really entertain .5 times? Maybe if the food is only half eaten. Or if only half your guests show. Or if said guests stay only half as long as expected. But then, you clearly haven't entertained them, have you?)


When we moved into our new house, we vowed to fill our it with food, family, and friends. And tonight we upheld that vow with a dinner invitation to The Quicks.


Mrs. Quick and I are recently made friends, our bond forged by a common interest in surviving motherhood. Our children are our pride and joy, and their births our breaks from sanity.


Mr. Quick is a meat-and-potatoes kind of guy. Mr. Starlet has an inherent aversion to most things healthy. There was no question that tonight's menu had to feature "Marlboro Man's Favorite Sandwich."


It's not just a meaty sandwich. It's sloppy. It's perfectly seasoned. And it takes at least 1/2 cup of butter to prepare. It's the kind of sandwich that will clog your arteries, but tastes so good that you don't mind that the average 80-year lifespan is no longer in the cards for you.


You'll just have to live it up more than some. OK, more than most.


Unless you counteract it with intense physical exercise. Running a marathon after dinner might help. Or, chasing housebound cats in circles as The Quicks' eldest did.


If only I had known how entertaining our otherwise lifeless cats were. I wouldn't have spent 30 minutes covering the dining room table in leftover packing paper so that this not-so-itty-bitty could color on the table while the adults got lost in Heart Attack Heaven.


On second thought, I would have. Crayons are fun. And there are few things more entertaining than watching a child correct her father that the "blue" crayon he intended to teasingly steal from her isn't blue but grey. Take that crayon stealer!


(And because I personally thought it was "black," I'm reminded that I desperately need some new eyeglasses...)


Like I said, motherhood is to be survived.