I owe you one.
The weekend before last, I’d promised a week of posts about the crock pot and then two days into it, I realized that if I wrote one more word about it, I would not be responsible for my actions. So I tyook a crock pot break.
But I am true to my word, sort of, and I will tell you how the crock pot almost ruined John’s life.
I’m sorry to have to tell you that John has never been supportive of my cooking endeavors. If I make meatballs, for example, he will say, “have you considered making something for the children not in a shape of a sphere?” If I heat some ravioli, he will comment, “I hope that you did not go to too much trouble” and if I order take out, he’ll sneer, “you’re lucky Husbandrinka doesn’t give you one across the face”. In other words, hurtful. Painful. But anyway.
So when I got the crock pot, he was similarly unsupportive.
“The problem with crock pots,” he opined, “is that everything that you make in them tastes exactly the same.”
“Fuck you, asshole,” I said. Which I’ve always found to be an excellent way to win an argument.
A few, well, eight, hours later I called him.
“My lamb stew is delicious and I can taste each spinach leaf distinctly,” I lied. “I’ve never been happier,”
“You know,” he said, “I’ve been making some calls.”
And he told me how he called friend after friend.
“Hey, Marta,” He would say, “do you have a slow cooka?” (John explained that he had to pronounce it like that for maximum effect.)
“Of course,” Marta told him. “And I make my chicken wings in it. And also apple pie.”
“Huh,” said John.
Then he called Gene.
“Gene?” he said. “Do you have a slow cooka?”
“I sure do!” said Gene. “How else would I make the best barbecue pork in the world?”
“I see,” said John.
Then he called Ross.
“I have a question for you, Ross,” John said, “Do you have a slow cooka?”
“I’ve had a slow cooker as long as I can remember,”Ross said. “It makes the perfect beans.”
“You see,” John told me, “not only does everyone have a slow cooker, but they all have a signature dish that they make with it.”
“I told you!” I said. Although I’d said nothing of the kind.
“It’s like a cult. And you know we were just saying that I’m looking to join some kind of an easy cult.”
I nodded in sympathy, which John didn’t know because we were on the phoen and it wasn’t a video phone.
“So I was thinking,” John said. “How big is your slow cooka?”
“FOUR QUARTS? That’s nowhere big enough for your family of six.”
“I do not have a family of six,” I said.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” John said. “I was counting both of your thighs. Anyway. You have growing children and they need more food. A four quart is nowhere near big enough.”
“Maybe you’re right,” I thought-said. “But where would I get a bigger one?”
“At Bed Bath & Beyond,” John suggested. “I even have a 20 percent off coupon for you,”
“That’s so nice of you,” I said.
“And then you will want to donate that four quart misery to your favorite gay,” John said.
“Yes, charity begins with me.”
It’s almost as though he has an ulterior motive.