Crock Pot Paradise

“Guard the soup, Luke,” I instructed my son as we recently transported a full pot of homemade chicken noodle soup to a church supper – an event hosted by the youth. (In other words, the moms did all the cooking.)

My dutiful middle son, bless his heart, did as he was told. But it was a struggle. I at least had the forethought to take my husband’s truck that night. I knew the soup was bound to slosh around a little, and I certainly didn’t want it all over my car! My Crock Pot has been faithful through the years – more than 20 years, I should say. But traveling with hot liquid concoctions is not its strong point.

“Arrrrrrrrgh!” My son screamed as I crossed yet another crack in the road. (I never realized there were so many until such time where we had to steady the soup in its vessel.) With the Crock Pot sitting firmly on the floor of the truck, Luke had straddled his feet on each side of it to keep it steady. As he was to find out, that wasn’t the best move on his part.  I hit the crack (or maybe it was a pothole, or whatever where so many of them pop up on the road over the winter). Then Luke let out an agonizing moan as the hot, steaming broth splashed and then trickled its way down his leg and into his shoe. From that point on, I think I didn’t go more than 30 miles an hour the rest of the trip. I stayed on the old road to avoid getting on the interstate. I didn’t dare go too fast, as I figured speed would lead to bigger splashes. Poor Luke ended up with a big blister on his ankle, at least a second-degree burn. Still, he was a sport. He spent the rest of the trip with his foot holding down the lid, with his ankles well away from the splash zone.

After arriving to the church and working with the other moms to help set up the spread (soup and salad night, it was), I found that I was not the only mom who had dealt with an adverse experience in transporting soup that evening. We were all complaining.

And then I spotted it – the mother of all slow cookers. And I wasn’t the only one who noticed it. We all did. We gathered around it. We salivated over it. We coveted. Pretty pitiful sight, actually. How much mediocrity does one have to have in one’s life to get excited over something like a slow cooker?

 What was it that our fellow mom had and we did not ? The Hamilton Beach 6-Quart Stay or Go slow cooker. What a beauty. It’s designed to travel and ideal for potlucks. Features on it include a secured lid with canister-style clips and a gasket for spill-resistant travel (it seals!); full grip handles; a lid rest that comes in handy when serving up the chow; and even a serving spoon that clips onto the lid handle. Now that’s my kind of Crock Pot! (At the risk of getting off point, I must note that this is not really a Crock Pot since it is a Hamilton Beach brand. As a writer and editor and a stickler for style, I must clarify that Crock Pot is a brand of slow cooker. However, the term Crock Pot is slowly going the way of some of its more well-known predecessors, such as Frisbee, Kleenex and Xerox. I did use the term in the title of this blog, but only for alliteration’s sake. There. Now see how anal I can be?)

Now back to the Crock Pot (uh, I mean slow cooker). All assurances that the story ends happily. In other words, yes I rushed out to Target (where our friend says she got hers) and bought one. Something tells me I wasn’t the only one, as I grabbed the last one. And let me say when I had it in my possession, I was more ecstatic than Ralphie’s dad was when receiving his “major award.” (If you haven’t seen the movie “A Christmas Story,” you’ll have to watch it to get that one.)

Today I made my first meal. Not soup, but a delectable pot roast that I put on to cook at 9 a.m. this morning. It cooked on high for about five hours, then low for about another five, and the rest of the time it was set on the “warm” setting. (Yes, it has a warm setting!) My husband was happy. I was happy. And most of all, my son with the burnt foot was happy.

My dutiful middle son Luke, holding the
newest addition to our family

Okay, maybe not my son. Actually, no. He would have much rather had pizza than pot roast. And as long as I don’t force him to haul hot soup between his legs, I don’t think he cares about my choice of slow cooker.

But it makes for a smooth end to this post. My old cooker injured my son, so as a mother it was my duty to retire it.

Yes, I see the logic now.  I had to buy that new slow cooker. For my son Luke.

Because I love him.