““Through the years we all will be together
If the fates allow…”
(Unless you have broken up with your girlfriend and are not on speaking terms.) Then the fates will not allow.”
This is a story about a little crockpot and the magic it spread throughout a life.
It was Christmas morning and I was a young man. Mature enough to cook for myself, yet not enough so to clean up after myself. This was a time period of great gadgets—A George Foreman Grill, a bread maker and a gift so glorious it was always on display in the kitchen, a crockpot. My beady little eyes spied a big heavy gift under the tree. It had a homemade tag on it with my name and a clue, as was tradition, “Don’t be a crock of shit. Love Mom and Dad.” It was wrapped so the bottom of the box was exposed – either not enough paper or a lazy wrapping job on Santa’s part. I could read the box. It was a Crock-Pot. My raccoon-like fingers tore into the gift-wrapping. “Oh, a Crock-Pot!” I exclaimed with false excitement. I have to admit, I was not thrilled to receive a slow cooker. In your twenties, you equate those things to old ladies throwing potlucks or Packer parties. It was a stainless steel 7Qt. Original Crock-Pot with black stoneware interior and three settings: Off, Low, and High. It was quite handsome, not the dated olive green from the 70’s that my mother owned. This was like the masculine sports car of crockpots that went from zero to 50 in like a couple hours.
This crockpot was rarely used due to poor planning since it usually takes about three to six hours just to cook the contents of any recipe. And that’s on the high setting! Once, I made a killer white bean, turkey chili that was amazing and I still think about it. I wonder where I put the recipe. I did cherish the appliance like a piece of sculpture. Like I said, I kept it on display in my various apartment kitchens over the years. It made every move but one and I’ll come to that in a minute.
It was right around Christmas and I had loaned my crockpot to my girlfriend at the time. She was a feisty competitive eater although you’d never think it since she was 5’ and petite. When she would get angry, her face would turn bright red and a vein would pop out on her forehead. Well, her face was ready to pop one afternoon when we got into a fight. I have no idea what it was about. She typically picked fights for no reason and I would escalate them by not really caring enough. It escalated so much so that she threatened to throw my crockpot out her apartment window. I pleaded with her to not throw my crockpot out the window; picturing the ceramic smashed to pieces on the sidewalk. This was a turning point in our relationship. Who would threaten something so cruel? It was the equivalent of throwing a baby out the window. I left her place steaming like a slow cooked roast. We made up just in time for her to meet my family but she pouted the entire time. My family was skeptical of her after hearing the story about the crockpot murder threat and not too long after that we broke up. I made sure to get my crockpot back before delivering the news.
Flash forward to this year. I went through another break up with another feisty 5’ tall brunette. We were living together at the time. She moved her stuff out before I moved my stuff out. When I was loading up my boxes, I noticed my crockpot was missing. I texted her, “Have you seen my crockpot?” She replied saying that her dad had accidentally packed it up and it was in storage in his basement now. Like the Arc of the Covenant in that Indiana Jones movie, my crockpot is now boxed up in a crate somewhere in a suburb of Illinois never to be seen again.
On Christmas day, if you are looking up at the sky, say a little prayer for my lost crockpot. It will warm your heart and mine. Goodnight and have yourself a merry little Christmas.