Fast forward to the maturity of mid-life adulthood and the griddle seems like Romper Room. I now am in love with my CrockPot. It saves me. It does all this magical work while I go on with other items needing to be taken care of (grading, walking the dog, cleaning, writing, Football, catching up with Chitunga and other Sunday rituals). If I am smart enough to keep my freezer stocked, all I need to do is wake up on a Sunday morning, find a recipe, give it a try, and wait 8 hours.
Yesterday, I made pulled pork again, but I found a different recipe that called for Worcester sauce and brown sugar, which seemed more appealing. I set it all up with garlic, onions, chicken broth, and spices and said, "See you later, dude."
I went on with my day. Occasionally I came in the house and said, "Hmmm. Smells like Sunday."
Around dinner time, I whipped up some cole slaw, cut up new potatoes with Rosemary and parmesan, cut up some rolls, and had myself a dinner. In the words of Tunga, "Wow. That was amazing." I knew it had to be because after he hate he did a cleaning spree of the kitchen (what I believe is his way of saying thanks).
I like to cook but it is a huge pain in the a$$. Sundays provide just enough space in the day to actually think about it, and when it occurs to me to think about it, I'm usually satisfied. Now we have at least one more meal for the week (although meals tend to disappear quickly in this house when no one is looking and it isn't me).
I know I've written about my love for a Crockpot before, but this is what has me captivated on a Monday morning, so I'm writing about it again here. I am thinking soup season is right around the corner and the Crockpot will begin complaining to me once again, "Can't you go outside and grill a burger or something."
Yup. Happy Monday.