While packing the cupboards before moving out of my condo, I found a Crock-Pot. I had used this trusty pot for cooking during the cold months, (which in Minnesota means everything on either side of August) but behind that one, I found another.
The second Crock-Pot looked vaguely familiar. It’s aluminum base was streaked by my six-alarm chili and the porcelain pot bore the calcified remains of my infamous Jambalaya, but what puzzled me is that I could not recall using it.
Even more troubling was a third Crock-Pot, snuggled behind the second. It was a small affair, with a heavy glass top and a base the color of baked beans. Admittedly, I eat beans – but I swear, I have never cooked a baked bean in my life. Again, the pot looked familiar. You see them used all the time at gatherings to keep food warm but I have no clue how this one got there.
But then things got scary – while cleaning under the bottom shelf the back of my hand brushed against a hard plastic object. It was unmistakably the control knob of yet another a Crock-Pot. In a panic, I flailed wildly under the shelf, chucking into the hallway, a clattering cacophony of Crock-Pot after Crock-Pot.
I uncovered Hamilton-Beach bases without pots and RIVAL pots without bases. I discovered old clay pots with no lids and modern creations so elegant I was not ever sure they were Crock-Pots. I found a faded earthen slow-cooker with handmade Navajo designs and one mysterious pot so darkened by soot that I could barely make out the print of a mastodon.
Had I uncovered a vein of Crock-Pots that ran all the way down into the mother lode? Is it possible that I had discovered a product that not only violated the laws of supply and demand but the laws of physics as well?
Back home the next morning, I asked my wife, “Honey, when is the last time we bought a crock pot?”
She set her fork down and rested her chin on the palm of her hand to ponder. “I don’t know,” she said, “should I pick one up?”