It was a tiny, adorable little thing that I felt very grown up having.
I took it excitedly out of the box and set it in a place of prominence on the bottom shelf of my microwave cart and would often gaze at it, imagining the Things I Would Make in it.
I could come home to cooked meals like Mommalah used to make - and not have to wait until our ritual weekly dinners to eat.
I could eat healthy roasts and have healthy leftovers ... oh, how healthy I would be.
That little Crockpot sat on that shelf and gathered dust for the next few years until last year when Mommalah declared the Crockpot too small for me to do anything with - as if that's the sole reason I never used it. {How angelic of her not to call attention to the fact that it's because her daughter is Inept in the Kitchen as the true reason it was never used.} She declared that the Crockpot's white insert would make the perfect tureen for our Thanksgiving gravy.
Last Christmas, Mommalah went on to buy me another Crockpot, a larger one with a pretty fall motif on the outside. Instead of taking this one out of the box and putting it on the microwave cart, however, this one I let it sit on the spare bed in my office, unopened until today.
Today, I have to work until 7 p.m., so I'll miss out on Sunday dinner at Mommalah's.
Today, I've decided to host Sunday dinner for Mommalah here.
Today, I've decided to make that Crockpot my bitch.
And now I'm a nervous wreck.
Long ago, my dear friend Tiffany gave me a recipe for chicken stroganoff with low WeightWatchers points.
It sounded so easy enough that I, the Inept in the Kitchen, could do it.
And so I am trying.
It's actually slow cooking as we speak.
I want so badly for it to be good.
I want so badly for the Crockpot and I to be friends.
Good friends, great even.
I will be on pins and needles all day until I come home and lift up that lid to taste the concoction.
If all else fails, we have chilled wine and Great Wall Chinese on speed dial.
No comments:
Post a Comment