I got my first crock pot when I was engaged to be married the first time. Yes, the first time. I was engaged before I met Bob. Yes, I met Bob when I was nineteen. I've said I was an overachiever. I wasn't kidding. I was engaged for a little over a year.
I got that first crock pot when I got engaged the first time. I've used it for over twenty years. It's so old, it doubles as a fondue pot and deep-fryer. Or, it used to. I wouldn't trust it to do either of those tasks now. I barely trust it to function as a crock pot, which is why about a year ago, just before Bob was scheduled to have his bone marrow transplant, I bought a new crock pot.
The new crock pot is awesome. It was meant to go with us when we lived near Stanford after his transplant. It's still in the box. I brought it into the house from the garage a couple months ago. That's as close as I've come to actually using it.
Who would have thought that two small appliances could have so much ridiculous baggage associated with them? Seriously? Crock pots.
Really, I just want to make some pulled-pork sandwiches. Instead, I keep ending up at the local Alehouse, where I order wine with my sandwich, which is an entirely different issue. I'll save that for another time. A girl needs to keep her baggage small enough to fit into the overhead bins.