A while back, Nyasha and Conrad were creating a pot roast. I do adore a moist, slow cooked, thick and steamy stew, yet my guidance surfaced from crock pot days of old. I haven’t actually made beef pot roast in a half decade or more.
I also have never played with an Instant Pot. It lives in the depths of the cupboards, silent, patient, nonplussed. In days of old, Kwami used it as a rice cooker. I’ve never seen it harboring rice, or anything else. It is a “some day appliance”, someday I will learn, someday I will cook such and such, someday I will habitually make one soup a week. Someday never comes.
For the record, I hate mini appliances, and store very few. If they sit stagnant for a year, they are cut from the team. The only reason the Insta Pot lurks in the dark is that there is space for it to do so. I don’t do countertop appliances because I don’t do clutter. The microwave is allowed, because it would be awkward to put it away and bring it out on demand. But even the microwave is a miniature version that fits in a tucked in tight location. I am unsure if I would own a microwave if I lived alone. I don’t really use it… hmm… it serves me only when I melt butter for recipes, and reheat tea that has turned cold.
My method is not the right method, it’s just mine. I hate mini appliances.
With slow cooking and the Insta Pot, Conrad and Nyasha were deliciously successful. We had some perilous moments, a few fears, and an adventure or two with steam. The appliance is a pressure cooker and crock pot in one. Pressure cookers make me think of explosions and burns. None of the fears came to life, but I recognized them, lived them. Cringed when Nyasha was working with the venting.
December is a pressure cooker waiting to blow.
For most people I know, the situation unfolds as bleak. The dominant interpretation of sadness and depression, spoiled fun, Covid holidays has left a cloud over humanity. There is a lull where rev usually lives. Sleep. Hopelessness. More sleep. Collective melancholy.
That creates a slow cooked pressure that is new to Americans. We are familiar with the stress, stress from the fast pace, the craze. We start with Black Friday, and escalate the rush and push… until Jesus pops out of that uterus (with the force of Millennia) on Christmas Day. Pressure cooked. Pour guy, not exactly the intention of his message.
In some ways, my heart still feels this pressure cooked feeling, the rev up of the holiday. It might have more intensity for me. I know that every moment has the possibility of being a last, and although I do not take that as morbid, it does squeeze a bit of uterine contraction into my desires. Do it right. Add more sparkle..
My theme is joy! Amber’s encouragement for her group (Woman Unleashed), for all of us, is “do just one thing”. The Christmas card from Helaine literally has Joy glittered on the front. It all comes together, crashing together. I have a long list of points to focus on, and honestly, I probably rake in points for ten items a day, not just one. But one is enough.
I hear the little voice. “Will you get it done? Can you get it done?” And then I am texting with Karolynne, and we plan to paint together. Not on the to do list. Better than “on the list”. I don’t care if I get the list done.
Joy. A step toward and with joy. One thing. Only the moment counts. The stuff, the timelines, NOT important. The Instant Pot can be a pressure cooker or a Crock Pot. Choose the latter. Live the slow cooker life!