I have had my current crockpot for a few years. I use it weekly, and if I skip a week, it could be used three times the next.
But it’s in the kitchen. That cursed room that gives me so many fits. I go blind and deaf to dingers and alarms and downright dumb with the crock’s display panel, searching for the “just cook this mess so I don’t have to think” button.
I so despise cooking that when I have to do something as simple as pour three things into a crock and turn it on, I want it done as early as possible so I can walk out of the kitchen.
Many times, I wish I could find the wherewithal to watch the clock and turn the appliance on later so the cook time ends when dinner is ready. But alas, we let it cook, then keep it warm—sometimes crispy, sometimes burnt-warm—until six p.m. rolls around.
I was prepping to leave the house for a few days and wanted to leave Adult-ish Man Child something to eat as he plays keeper to the three angry felines. I’d prefer it not to be crispy or burnt, but what can be done?
I pulled the crockpot from its perch on top of the fridge at seven a.m., knowing he wouldn’t be at the house until twelve hours later. Twelve hours. Frozen meatballs, marinara. Two ingredients.
They’ll be crispy by noon.
They’ll be burnt by evening.
But at least Adult-ish Man Child will know I tried and that his momma loves him. He’ll understand. He grew up with my culinary disasters, after all. And we’re leaving for Detroit (I don’t even know…) in an hour.
As I gave the concoction a stir, I turned on the control panel. Right there, under my left thumb, shone the words DELAYED START.
Are you kidding me? Was it there the whole time? Does that mean what I think it means?
It wasn’t kidding. Of course the button had been there. Of course it does what the name suggests.
I go blind, deaf, and completely dumb in the kitchen.
I fussed with the panel for a minute, playing with timing and numbers. Unplugged it, then plugged it back in to clear it a couple of times until I got the hang of the setting. Then I had to do clock math, which I wasn’t prepared for because we’re leaving for Detroit (I don’t even know…).
Little Miss is fussing with the hem of my shirt as I write this.
“What are you doing?” I tug my shirt away from her.
“I think you have one of those buttons. We must’ve missed it.”
“What button?”
“The DELAYED START button. It must be stuck.”
“What on earth are you talking about?”
She pulls up all the half-baked story starts from the last few years and flashes them across the laptop screen. “Yup. Button’s stuck. Lots of concoctions mixed up, but you’ve not started cookin’ yet.”
I want to shoo her away and revoke her glitter and Zippo-lighter privileges, but I stop myself. As usual, she’s right, and I don’t have an argument against my stuck button.
“Maybe we need to unplug you and plug you back in a few times.” I stop her from putting a wad of chewed grape gum under the Airbnb’s dining room table.
“Maybe. When we get back from this trip—”
She holds up her chonky hand in my face, other hand on her hip. “Wait. Why are we in Detroit?”
I don’t even know…
