I have always been cautious, perhaps too much so.  I calculate carefully all important decisions in my life...based often upon my sincere respect of negative outcomes.  Others, less cautious than I, have moved through their life events reacting to the stimuli of the moment...changing focus based solely upon the attraction of some alluring variable...or simply by reading the signs left by God, Darwin...or the Piggily Wiggily.

I had fared well in most of the arts and sciences.  Although it was no secret to my colleagues that neither the culinary nor the romantic were my forte.

Then one day I felt motivated to change, or at least explore change...experiment.  I had thoroughly read and reread all the self-help books of the last two generations.  Yes...of course, I had even absorbed...memorized word for word, Carson McCullers' A Tree, A Rock, A Cloud.  Perhaps it had all finally sunk in, or maybe I simply was overcome by a biologic need for self-improvement.

So I bravely chose to purchase my very first crockpot.

I had always been leery of crockpots.  I never really understood why.  It's like the invisible electronic fence for dogs...or those cruel-looking, but practical leashes for children.  Something always warned me to hold back...don't embrace this concept...not yet.

That overly cautious voice now explains more clearly why my mother was the last person in the civilized world to purchase a clothes dryer.  And the more I think of it...microwave ovens, central air conditioning, dishwasher, cable TV, personal home computers, video games, internet...and yes, even FM RADIO were all things my risk-avoiding family got at the end of the line to experience.

So that brings us to the Crockpot.  It goes against my grain, my very soul, to leave an appliance turned on all night long.  Worse still was the inconceivable neglect of leaving anything, appliance or otherwise, turned on all day long while I left the house. It's not the waste of electricity as much as the fear of far worse........     

Neglected Appliance Destroys Neighborhood!

But my co-workers had finally convinced me that the ham and bean soup, the sloppy joe, even the chicken cacciatore could secretly simmer safely next to the toaster all night long as I slept.

I could have waited for my birthday.  I had always been asked what it is I wanted, to which I always replied, Nothing.  But there was that time I actually responded, in need of a tie. That did not end well.  I simply could not risk entering the 21st century of evolving Crockpot technology with a closet full of multiple devices of varied size and colors.  For all I knew crockpot styles go in and out of fashion.  I had to mindfully choose my first one...much like a careful groom pours over a catalogue of mail-order brides.

I…I found her.  Not in a sealed box, gently packed with styrofoam, not at any big box store appliance section surrounded by glamorous marketing point of sale announcements.  No...I found her sitting alone, unwanted, at my neighborhood garage sale...on a folding metal table next to a set of unused candles, a wall plaque with a singing fish, and a salad bowl.

Yes, she had been used before...presumably by someone with more experience than me.  But there she sat, next to her original box, willing to yield five quarts of loving nourishment.

So we traded, my neighbor and I.  In return for $3.50 I was given my opportunity to attempt change.  What was it that Kurt Vonnegut said to my graduating class at M.I.T.?

Do something scary, every day!

That’s what this was all about.  But I quickly learned that it isn’t enough to covet your neighbor’s crockpot.  Behind closed doors you must have the confidence to know what to do…to make the first move.  But all my self-help books were failing me.  That’s when I slipped my hand underneath the crockpot top and felt the comfortable pages of a book…a pamphlet…a set of how-to directions that my life so desperately needed.

I had found the manufacturer’s original crockpot cook book. 

Who needs Tony Robbins?  Who needs Wayne Dyer.  I had in my possession the Westinghouse Timeless Crockpot Favorite Recipes Collection!

Anxious for direction, my fingers caressed each page…each recipe until I came upon the one meal my mother refused to allow in our kitchen.  It was forbidden, and as such, I had often dreamed of tasting its exotic flavors.  But ever since my father ran off with the sales director from his company’s Boston office…we were not allowed to even speak of…authentic New England Clam Chowder.

But mother, God rest her soul, is not here to bridle my passionate hunger.  She lives in a raised ranch three blocks away.

So alone, my crockpot and I read over the ingredients put forth by the master chefs of slow cookery, on staff at the Westinghouse Corporation.

              ½ cup of imitation crab meat

              1 Table spoon of pepper

              1 Table spoon of sea salt

              1 tea spoon of coconut oil

              1 large can of mushroom soup

I was not the least bit curious why crab meat could substitute for authentic New England clams.  Neither was I haunted by the mysteries of either sea salt nor coconut oil.  But…mushroom soup?

Who was I to question the logic?  Some famous crockpot connoisseur, loved by hungry women and men alike?  No, not me…not yet.  If fate had conspired to bring my crockpot and I together, I could at the very least…give fate the benefit of the doubt.  I drove off with list in hand, not to my local grocer…just in case mother was shopping…but to the Piggily Wiggily across town.

I first ventured to the baking aisle.  To ensure fresh ingredients, I gathered up a new container of pepper, and placed into my basket for the first time…there’s always a first time…a box of sea salt.  Then I paused.  Standing in front of the cooking oils was a beautiful woman, taking her time reviewing the store’s selection of baking, cooking, and simmering lubricates.   She stood 5’3”, shoulders bigger than mine, nylon gym shorts, flip flops upon her delicate feet, one knee larger than the other, and wearing a University of Alabama football jersey.

I crept closer.  Perhaps pretending not to notice me, she muscled a large can of Crisco oil into her basket, next to a 24 case of Bud Light.  She moved on, allowing me to pick up where I left off before she so boldly entered my life. 

Coconut oil…I looked around.  The Piggily Wiggily does not have an overly generous inventory of coconut oil selections.  They had only one.  I hesitantly placed for purchase into my basket, next to the fresh pepper and sea salt, a bottle of Amish Country Coconut Oil.

The Amish do not use Crockpots yet they are so admirably entrepreneurial as to predict the needs of crockpot novices like myself.  I respect the Amish and their ways…and their ability to diversify.

I pressed on to the meat counter, looking for the offerings of fresh fish.  The butcher freshly pointed to a display of imitation seafood, whose only selection was the very crab-like meat I sought.

The overhead signs directed me to my final purchase.  Signs are important in our lives.  When they are not leading us to where we are going, they often…ever so subtly…caution us as to where we’ll end up.

I ended up in the soup aisle, surrounded by selections I had not ever conceived in my wildest soup dreams.  Even among cream of mushroom soup, there were choices I was ill-prepared for.  Four makers of cream of mushroom soup sought my attention.  Although I was tempted to grasp one of the two off-brands, I selected the comfortable Campbells choice. 

But there it was. 

Maybe I should have read the signs more clearly.  Had I missed something important about crockpots and desiring what they might yield?  Had I rushed to pursue the means to an end…when in fact the end had always been available to me?

Had I missed the signs?

There next to the cream of mushroom soup, stacked neatly in a row, 5 cans deep, I found New England Clam Chowder…on sale…this week only. 

I bravely returned the sea salt, and the Amish Country Coconut Oil, and the fresh pepper and the imitation non-clam meat.  I returned home with my five cans of New England Clam Chowder and consoled my crockpot.  She understood as I threw away all my self-help books and cookbooks alike.

I am finally ready to walk down the aisle and simply read the signs.