Personally, I find the seventies to be the heydey of crock pots. People were whipping up roast beef, chili and hot fruit in vessels of bright orange, brown and lime green. Occasionally, you get lucky enough to come across the unmistakable butter yellow that transports you back to the days when a men proudly wore a chunky belted sweaters and women doused themselves in Jean Nate. With my 20th high school reunion just around the corner and I suspect it is making me feel nostalgic.
So I am whipping out my crock pot which sadly is a sleek new stainless steel with plastic black handles. Lovely to look at but for now unlike an older model it lacks soul. Hopefully, a few batches of stewed apricots, pot roast, kheer, Boston baked beans and Moroccan chicken my little baby will be the Aretha Franklin of crocks. And demanding that I give her R-E-S-P-E-C-T!
Like child or a J Peterman catalog writer, I love to name things. From crabby neighbors to kitchen appliances. With that I dub my crock, Aretha!
So tomorrow Aretha and I start with granola. No, I haven't been sneaking shots of tequila, I actually said granola. Staples of hippies and children of Whole Foods loving moms everywhere. And now I'll be making in a crock pot (gasp) for my sweet hubby and little ol'. I am hoping to take what I am confident will be scrumptious granola and make a proper energy bar. Then the ol' husband can take in long bike rides up the mountain. Since I long ago abandoned the hobby of pedaling and cursing my way up long never ending inclines, mine granola will cereal or sprinkled in homemade yogurt. Yum!
I have a feeling this is the start of a long love affair between Aretha and I.