Four cans were quickly stowed in the pantry, given optimistic pride of place at the front of the shelf.

A quick and furious debate comparing the benefits and pitfalls of stovetop versus microwave delayed my culinary endevour, but not for long.  Still feeling slightly guilty about snubbing my poor crockpot, the least I could do was pretend to be a proper cook and warm my can of instant gratification on a good ol' fashioned stove.

And old fashioned it was.  To be more specific, it was 1967 worth of old fashion, and pea soup green (not that I'd know what pea soup looked like either--Mother flirted with the recipe once until she found that it called for a hamhock. "Bones" and "pork" -- a soup chock full of vulgarity in Mother's eyes.)

A quick flourish with a can opener, and I had my first glimpse of my oral adventure -- and adventure looked white and lumpy. Hmm.

Moving to the stove, I tipped the can over the waiting pot.  Then tipped a bit more.  Then a bit more.  A bit more.  Then a bit more until the can was completely upside down.  A slap on the bottom of the can made no difference.  I had to take a spoon to it, digging around the edge of the can until finally, with a gelatinous "gloop!" the entire contents landed in the waiting pot-- and held its shape.  Hmm.

I carved the cylindrical soup into more managable pieces, and tried to stir it into at least a semblance of fluidity.  With a bit of perseverance and the warmth of the stove, the mush finally loosened, softened, and after careful constant stirring, began to simmer.  As my spoon moved with increasing smoothness and confidence through the chowder, I started to feel my opitimism start to return...

It felt like I was being watched.

The hair on the back of my neck stood on end, and I slowly turned around.  Curtains were properly drawn, that's good.  No one else is in the house... I would have heard them come in...

The crockpot stared at me.

Her cycloptic dial's gaze bored mournfully into my head...

Oh for ****'s sake, this is ridiculous.  Feeling annoyed with myself, I turned back to the stove, and judged my merrily bubbling soup to be ready.  Bowl, ladle, spoon...

She's still sitting there...looking at me.

Ok, that's it!

I stalked over, grabbed her by the handles and turned her to face the wall.  As I walked away, in the back corner of my mind, I thought I heard a tiny ceramic sniffle...