I'm not going to get all metaphysical or even metaphorical on ya in this one. I'm just layin' it on the line: I feel indebted to my crockpot. And damned near teary-eyed about it.
There are a few of you who understand, I know. You feel a deep love for some of your belongings, too. And in spite of all my Buddhist talk about the 2nd and 3rd Noble Truths, the reality is that I heart my kitchen stuff. Some of it, I cling to with a flourish of unashamed abandon.
That's my crockpot -->
Now, there's no sentimental value in this beautiful, cornflower blue, massive piece of crockware. In fact, I don't even recall where I got this one. It's not my first, by any stretch, and it's no different from the others, really. If I still had any of the others, I might feel similarly smitten with them.
But this is the one I have right now; therefore, I am in love with it.
Dear Crockpot: To utter "thank you" in your direction is nearly an insult. Rather, I want you to know that your participation in my life has, well, prolonged my existence. You've kept me fed on something other than peanut butter and tuna fish sandwiches for weeks, even as the propane eeking from the big white tank to my stove dwindles into wimpy little flames beneath my coffee pot.
Before you rescued me, you saved my child's life on numerous occasions. Had it not been for you, having dinner ready, magically, after my long day of running amok in Swamp City with The World's Most Field-Tripped Boy, well... I pull up short at writing what might have happened.
Oh, Crockpot, so many would devalue you and your food magic. They simply don't understand, or maybe they've only experienced crock-potted meals from unloved pots. I don't know. But there's a hearty few of us out there who get it. We know and appreciate your duty-cum-art. We love your art. We are your fondest admirers. And you never let us down. (Unless we forget to plug you in or turn you on, which isn't your fault.)
Sure, you have nicks and scratches, and you've even done without your busted plastic lid for a solid year or more -- go, you! -- providing meals for me and mine even without all your supposedly necessary accoutrements! Even with nothing more than cheap tinfoil covering you, you fulfill my dinner dreams with panache. You and your fitted heating element are a team. I don't know if the two of you set out intentionally to win my heart, but here it is, on a platter of slow-cooked gratitude, just for you.
(PS - Let's all pray now to the Kitchen Deities that I won't be writing an ode to my Camp Stove in the near future...)