My older sister recently cleaned out the storage shed in her backyard, although to say it was “cleaned out” is kind of an understatement. Her exterminator reported that he found what were undeniably rat droppings in her shed, and that shed was emptied, dismantled and hauled away by the end of the week. My sister is no friend of rats.
Over the years my sister’s shed had become a repository for things of no discernable immediate use that she still considered too valuable to be thrown away. Now, she methodically gave away the contents of her shed, neglecting to tell the lucky recipients of her largesse the part about the rats.
And so it was that I got home from work one day to find a crockpot, still in the original 1970’s box, on my front porch. I am fairly certain the crockpot was a wedding gift to her, and whether or not it had ever come out of the box is open for discussion. Notwithstanding the culinary appeal of receiving a crockpot that came from a rat-infested shed, I was still confused since I have never uttered the words “I sure wish I had a crockpot.”
In my mind, crockpots are invariably linked to my Aunt Gloria. Auntie was a truly awful cook in an era when housewives were defined by their cooking skills. Although Gloria was as bad a cook as you can be without actually being dangerous, she thought she was a great cook.
Gloria received a crockpot one Christmas in the 1970s and it changed her life; until the end of her days she used that crockpot at least five days a week. (The days she did not use the crockpot was because she finished the leftovers from the previous day’s crockpot meal.)
Her habit was to throw a variety of ingredients into the crockpot at 7 AM– any ingredients she had on hand. At 7 PM she would get out her slotted serving spoon and serve what had morphed into a bowl of brown mush. It really did not much matter what she threw in the crockpot, although some of her combinations were truly inspired; after twelve hours on low heat it was all brown mush. “You won’t find this recipe on ‘The Galloping Gourmet’” she would often say.
Her husband and kids became resigned to crockpot cookery, and rejoiced on days when the brown mush was minimally recognizable: on red-letter days Auntie would mix a rump roast with potatoes and carrots and produce a plausible pot roast. On most other, darker, days they were not so lucky. For example, Auntie might mix frozen shrimp with leftover mashed potatoes, some cream of mushroom soup and peas, which she called “Caribbean Shepherd’s Pie.” One memorable meal consisted of chicken thighs, canned Chinese vegetables, canned pineapple, canned chow mien noodles and about a gallon of soy sauce. “Who needs a wok when you have a crockpot?” Auntie declared, as she set the timer for 12 hours at a low heat.
Remembering Auntie’s meals, I called my sister. “I found a crockpot on the front porch,” I began carefully. “You’re very welcome!” she said brightly, not noticing that I had not thanked her. “Everyone needs a crockpot,” she continued. “They’re the bread machines of 2018.”
I let that remark slide. “I’m sure there must be someone who needs the crockpot more than me,” is what I finally said.
“You’ll love it,” she said with authority. “Aunt Gloria loved hers and you’re every bit the cook she was.” As we said good-bye I let that remark sink in as I took the crockpot and put it in my shed.