I recently discovered the healthy, frugal, “have my shit together” magic known as a crockpot, specifically, a brown-and-tan, floral relic from my parents’ wedding that in a roundabout Oedipal way, led to the traumatization of my penis.
I don’t often cook. I sometimes throw a sweet potato in the oven, and on occasion, I’ll add some basil to a can of chili. My meals usually consist of protein shakes, motor dogs, Reese’s, and Babybell cheese. Until the crockpot.
The crockpot filled my freezer with Costco bags of chicken breasts, Costco bags of chicken thighs, Costco four-packs of pork loins, and styrofoam Costco trays of pork shoulder. The two percent rebate makes this stewardly. My magical, inherited slow cooker has transmogrified icy protein into salsa chicken, orange chicken, sesame chicken, Ethiopian chicken, and sweet potato chicken. My diet has ceased to embarrass me. I can contribute to potlucks and host dinner guests. My protein intake has doubled. My heart will not survive.