(It’s Christmas time. If there was ever a time that was made for crock pot-tackularness, this is it. In honor of the many, many crock pots we are about to see, I thought it might be good to look back on a letter I think a lot of us would like to write to this ever gracious, ever warm appliance.)
Dear Crock Pot,
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. We’re eating fewer 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 miniature hot dogs swimming in mysterious red sauce, no unidentifiable stew that is the crayon color of Burnt Sienna. Somewhere you sit all alone in a cabinet, instead of your rightful place of honor.
People keep telling me 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 a mere platform. 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. You always give, you never take away.
If there were a dish hall of fame I would nominate you. If there were an NCAA type tournament for cookware, I would pick you to win my bracket. If Mount Rushmore had the room for an additional American hero, your bald face would sing from the mountains.
Forever yours,
Jon
