What a crock (pot).

I told Nick last night that I was surprised we weren’t dead. It may have been a bit of an exaggeration, but you have to understand the context to fully comprehend why I chose to question our existence and, for the most part, our stomachs that weren’t upset or nauseated or churning.

It all began on my birthday when my dad bought me a crock pot. Until that point, I was a slow cooker virgin. I’d heard the praises of the contraption from busy friends and stay-at-home moms, but I had never actually broken down and bought one. So, my dad took care of it fore me. And to go along with my stainless steel faux finished cooker, he gave me the ingredients for my first slow-cooked stew.

Okay, first of all, I don’t like stew. Never have and probably never will. But I thought Nick liked it. It has all of the important, manly ingredients including beef and potatoes. Why wouldn’t he like it? So, at 11:00 Sunday morning, I threw everything into the cooker, turned it on high and walked away. An hour later, I turned the cooker to low and let it stew and heat and cook painstakingly slowly until 6:00 when Nick was hungry. He ate a bowl of stew and I picked at a bowl — remember, I hate stew. The next night, being one who hates to waste, I fixed Nick another bowl of the meaty, potatoey goodness. Only this time, I added some cumin and chipotle and sour cream and cheese and I made goulash out of the stew. He liked the variation very much and had several bowls.

Last night, I got home late from a meeting and was hungry. I thought maybe some meat from the stew heated up would satisfy my hunger as well as provide a nice protein source. So I got out the stew and a bowl and I began to look for meat. Instead, I saw something that looked strange and black and not quite like a red onion, which I hadn’t added anyway. And, so I investigated further until I realized what it was and recoiled in shock. That’s right, I had slow-cooked the heck out of the stew meat AND the plastic, gauze, blood absorbing packaging that the meat sits on. It was precisely at that point, at the second that I realized we’d been consuming gauze and blood and plastic that I exclaimed, “Oh my gosh, NICK, you won’t believe what we’ve been eating. Do you feel sick? Are you okay? Oh my gosh, gross, I’m going to puke! Yuck, Ew, (this is when I made gagging noises), Nick!!! I can’t believe we’re not dead.”