Is there anything your circle of goodness can’t deliver?
Any bounty of deliciousness you are incapable of providing?
Any warm embrace of bubbly food delightfulness you are unwilling to share?
I say no. And it is for that reason I write today. You see dear Crock Pot, I don’t find you much anymore. We’re all trying to live a little healthier, eat less dishes that look like macaroni, cheese and beef got into a street fight. So now when I go to potlucks I can’t find you among the sea of vegetable plates and organically grown sea grass burgers. I look, oh, I promise you I look, but you are nowhere to be found. No minature hot dogs swimming in mysterious red sauce, no unidentifiable stew that is the crayon color of Burnt Sienna. Somewhere you sit in a cabinet, instead of your rightful place of honor.
I keep getting emails from people that say I should write about potluck dinners. And maybe I will some day, but that feels like writing about the stadium Michael Jordan played in, instead of you, the Michael Jordan of kitchenware. The potluck dinner is just a stage, the star of the show is the Crock Pot. The spotlight was designed for you my rotund friend.
You’re so forgiving too. We can just throw something in you and completely forget about cooking for hours. Even if that meal spent an hour too long in your hot belly, it’s OK. You won’t burn it. You won’t hurt it. Your love is tender.
If there were a dish hall of fame I would nominate you. If there were an NCAA type tournament, I would pick you to win my bracket. If I ever get a book printed I might hug you tightly in my headshot for the back cover.
p.s. I’m leaving for New York today so if you see a mildly sarcastic person posting silly things about us Christians whilst in an Internet Cafe near Times Square, that’s me.