Finding Direction: The Wind Vane Chronicles

When I last wrote of Tom here, he was cooking up trouble in MY kitchen (see here) with a plethora of new small kitchen appliances, gadgets, gizmos and whatnots.  His latest purchase had been an “on sale, cheap,” in his words, 25 gallon, at least really large crock pot he thought we really needed and he was ready to cook.

The day he brought the crock pot home, he came prepared.  He also bought a prepackaged chuck roast that had carrots, onions, potatoes & a seasoning packet with it.  He got up the next morning, filled the crock pot and “voila” dinner started simmering for hours, smelling wonderful.

It wasn’t until after dinner was over that I pointed out the fact that we could have purchased all of the parts and pieces of the meal separately for a lot less.  And I tried to do so gently, since he was not only a fledgling cook, but also a big help to me in taking over the dinner preparations.  Up until this point in his retirement, his daily crisis in life had consistently been “so . . . what’s for dinner?”  He always used those same words about the same time of day.  Just after I finished making him lunch and he ate it.  He immediately started worrying about dinner.

And, I mean, it’s not like I never fed him – or that he had ever done without too many meals.  It seemed to me to stem more from either a long ago insecurity over not being fed enough as a little kid or else (my theory) he had way too much time on his hands and had nothing better to do than harass me unceasingly about why I wasn’t spending hours each day in the kitchen.

[I must note here, too, that when he retired was about the same time that my blogging regularly became a problem.  I'm not casting blame, you understand.  I'm just sayin'.]

Anyway . . . he was so excited at his crock pot success, he decided to try something else in it.  He was completely enamored with his new kitchen toy . . . sensation . . . appliance and now wanted to fix everything in it.  Or, at least serve everything in it.  Including things we had always before prepared and served in big pots on the stove.  Like chili.  And crawfish corn bisque.  And gumbo.  And this proved especially so when we invited friends to come eat with us.  Whereas before we had usually had everyone serve themselves in the kitchen out of one of our big pots on the stove, he now thought our pots were just too “ugly” to serve guests from any more.  We now needed to transfer whatever we had prepared to the crock pot on the counter top where we could keep it warm.

I didn’t see the crock pot as being any better looking than our pots.  And, I certainly didn’t see any need to now have to wash and scrub two separate containers when one would do.  That just doubled my work load.  But, he wouldn’t be swayed.  When he finally, albeit reluctantly, agreed to wash up both containers for me, I relented.  But, I wasn’t a happy camper, I’m tellin’ ya.

This went on for two or three weeks – him wanting to fill the crock pot every other day with some big batch of food and then invite friends over to be served from it.  My freezer was already beginning to overload, but he was still at it.  And he thought his first try with the roast, et al, was such a success, he wanted to try another dish.  This time from scratch.  I had him peruse my cookbooks and every single recipe I had, but he found them all lacking somehow.  So, instead, he did what he had really wanted to do in the first place.  He jumped online to find a “perfect” one for him to try.   (Of course.  Why didn’t I think of that.  Where does one go these days.  I mean – how on earth had I managed all these years with only about a dozen or more cookbooks and piles of good recipes I’d collected from family and friends over half a century.)

It took him a while, but finally he found one he liked.  He printed it out and even went to the grocery store with me to purchase all of the ingredients.  When we got home, he pulled his crock pot out to set on the counter top for the next morning.  He placed all of his cans of corn, tomatoes and other veggies nearby, along with the box of chicken broth he needed to use.  The meat went in the fridge and he planned on getting up early to get dinner started in the crock pot because it was supposed to cook eight hours or longer on low.  We usually eat around 6 or 6:30 p.m., so time was of the essence.

The next day it was about noon before I came into the kitchen for the first time.  I’d had a really bad night and had slept very late.  I assumed Tom had everything under control.

I was shocked when I looked around.  The crock pot was sitting there plugged in with the lid off, but it only had a couple of things in it.  There were opened cans sitting all around with veggies still in all but two of them.  The box of broth had been opened, too, but was still full.  The meat was nowhere to be seen.  Neither was Tom.

I found him over at his desk in our living room talking on the phone.

When he finally got off the phone, I asked him who it was and what he had been doing all morning.  He said he’d been on his computer earlier, including Facebook, iTunes and YouTube, and then had phone calls from two friends and had called his brother.  The conversations had been long, he said, and had taken up a lot more time than he’d thought.

In other words, he’d gotten completely sidetracked playing around on his computer and talking with friends.  All morning.  It was now past noon and the kitchen was a mess with nothing cooking.  The cook had played hooky it seemed.  It was way too late to start his recipe that had to cook in the crock pot for over eight hours to be ready to eat.

But, I wasn’t upset.

Nope.  Not a bit.  I thought it was rather funny.

Besides – it gave me the perfect opportunity to say what I’d been dying to say since I’d come in the kitchen.

“So . . . ” I asked him.  Sweetly.  “What’s for dinner?”