5:45 – Gotta pee, see the time and think “meh, I can get another wink in before 6am”.
6:00 – Alarm sounds … volume is down so I don’t hear it.
6:01 – 7:27am – Second alarm sounds at 6:40 and I don’t hear that either. At some point Ari crawls in my bed and starts jabbering away. I don’t EVER open my eyes and make contact during these times because eye contact means I’m awake and I don’t want to be awake.
7:28am – Ari: Maaaaaaaama, ma, ma, moom!!!!!!!
Me: WHAT!!!! (Eyes still closed)
Ari: Mr Gold Sun is UP!
Me: Pissed off and ready to slice this child, I look at my phone and it’s now 7:29am. 😳😳😳😳😳😳
7:29:53 – General household announcement that the bus is leaving in 10 minutes those not on it will suffer the wrath of Mama Known’s grueling cleaning schedule all day (uh, if you’ve been in my house you know this does not exist … EVER).
7:33 – Ari is standing on her bed, naked, clothes in hand. “I’m getting dressed mama”
Ashley is STILL in bed but swearing she is up and almost dressed.
7:37 – Ari now has pants on. Zoe has a collar and her legs are quivering from holding pee. Ash is nowhere to be seen. But send out a signal of life every 30-40 seconds.
7:40 – Ari and I dash downstairs, I make a pathetic PB sandwich and throw in a granola bar and call it a day for her lunch.
Ashley still has made no entrance.
7:45 – Ari has on her pants, socks, shoes, coat … underwear in one hand, shirt in the other. Ash has appeared in a nice dress and designer leggings. Good to know someone has the time for style today.
7:47 – (Ari should be in school now) Ari disrobes in the kitchen to put on the forgotten garments. Ash throws a breakfast sandwich in the micro, let’s Zoe out to pee and decides to change her clothes. Uhhh … NO! The second announcement is made that anyone in various states of undress will still be boarding the mama bus in 1 minute.
7:49 – Run to the truck that we left outside instead of in the heated garage. Winter has returned … nobody is dressed for the 37 degree shock.
7:49:17 – Ari doesn’t have her bag!!!! She runs to get it.
7:51 – Finally leaving for the school run.
7:53 – LATE so Ash has to walk Ari to her classroom.
8:03 – LATE so Ash has to be buzzed into to school while I call them and beg for mercy.
8:07 – PLEASE DEAR GOD DONT LET THIS MORNING BE IN VAIN … I CAN NOT MISS THE DIRECT TV AND INTERNET APPOINTMENT AT 8AM!!!! Mama Known needs her WiFi and HBO back.
Any other day and I would have declared it a no school day, handed Ari the remote, and gone back to sleep.
It’s been a long winter here in Wisconsin. Kids are restless, they have lost their minds, refuse to wear appropriate clothing, and are demanding lemonade like it’s a requirement for life during what should be warmer months. What is a parent to do!?! Seriously, this may actually be my signal for help. Mom down! Sound the alarms! Woop woop!
I grew up in Northern Indiana and Central Michigan. I don’t have any clear recollection of seasons being skipped, extended, or left to be a mere figment of our grainy imaginations. I spent my summers at camp and the rest of the year in school. I guess you could say my life as a child was very similar to the Wonder Years.
Now, fast forward to today and this ridiculous cold streak that may never end. Oh, but wait … there’s hope! We’ve had 3 days above 50 degrees and might just fall near 30 at night, but not below for the first time in what seems like a century. You see, we adults can rationalize this weather system business. Kids? Not at all. At least not my kids.
My four year old firmly believes that since Mr. Sun is now waking up before 6am, not taking naps, and staying up until after 7pm that she should definitely be on the same schedule. She also spends her days finding new ways to attempt breaking in to the OUTDOOR pool because it’s summer already. When she can’t get to the pool she just strips and swims in her Sammy the Snail sand table. Oh yes, picture that … you will laugh for a bit.
My 15 year old is on a totally different spectrum. Not only is it supposed to be nice enough to wear shorts and tank tops, she believes by being strong willed the global system has no choice but to align. Yup, that’s right, apparently I’m parenting a child that has the power to persuade Mother Nature. After she’s done dressing for the beach on a brisk 35 degree day, she puts on a Xero Exposure four layer winter coat to keep the breeze from drying out her skin. Uhhh … legs aren’t important? We are just freezing them off now? I don’t think CPS is ok with you having nubbins simply because Mother Nature needs to shape up or ship out. Yeah, they would definitely frown about that.
So you see, as parents, we fight a losing battle. I wake up smart, look smart, fix and spruce up the unsmart factors, and enter the battle field. As always, I realize at the moment I hit the front lines that I’m not prepared; I’ve become a causality of disservice; and how in the hell will I escape this nightmare without 1. Causing lasting injury and 2. Maintaining even a modicum of self respect? The answer? A bunch of emoji’s that don’t quite say what I’m feeling or thinking on an individual basis, but together … they speak volumes.
I took a step back. I
researched and studied. And I stand (well,
sit actually) here proudly and ready to share that I may have lost the battle,
but the Instant Pot lost the war. Yes,
I’m dramatic, get used to it. Just to
recap, I attempted to make a pot roast in this beastly kitchen appliance a few
weeks ago and was sadly disappointed. I
walked away damaged and destroyed by an electrical object. However, my mama raised no quitter. The internet may have a lot of fake news, but
when it comes to the Instant Pot, it’s legit!
Not only did I win, but I made the best meal we have had in
over a year. I’m no Gordina Ramsey, but
I’ve got chops in the kitchen. I’ll
admit, I can’t take much credit for the succulent pile of tender and juicy pot
roast that was lifted out to a chorus of ooh’s and ahhh’s tonight. Here’s the shocker . . . the roast wasn’t the
star. When preparing this most loved
meal I always make mashed potatoes. My
potatoes are good, and I’ve perfected the recipe from a combination of friend’s
recipes over the years. But these
potatoes? I’d like to think they were
amazing and the best I have ever had.
First of all, if you have come here for a healthy recipe, you
will be disappointed. If you have come here for a recipe in general,
stay tuned, you’ll get that when I am able to recreate this genius and record
it. Let me just say, the potatoes cooked
with the meat for 2hrs on high pressure.
After a natural decompression I then prepared them as if I were making
mashed potatoes like any other day. The magic
was in how they were seasoned and cooked in the Instant Pot. These potatoes tasted like GRAVY! I’m not joking. I didn’t even make gravy because these
potatoes turned out so flavorful that we didn’t need it. The meat was juicy, and every bite was like
you didn’t deserve it for free.
I have a saying I live by: If you didn’t learn anything, go
back and look again. I truly believe
this applies to every part of our lives, even in the kitchen. After my first instant pot disaster I had to
go back and figure out what went wrong and how I couldn’t get a stinkin’
kitchen appliance to comply. It wasn’t
easy and I’ll admit, there have been 2 other massive failures prior to this most
excellent success. But there is a bigger
picture here, no matter what, keep going.
And yes, I just took this journey to an entirely different level.
In the kitchen, in the bedroom, heck, even in the bathroom, pretty
much anywhere, if you feel like a failure, like there is no way to succeed . .
. you just keep going. I sat down to
blog tonight and caught myself flipping through pictures. Isn’t digital media amazing? I love that I can tap something, swipe
another, or just speak to Alexa and I have my past looking back at me. This Instant Pot war reminded me of my
mom. She couldn’t cook for crap. Seriously, the lady had eight recipes and
rotated them with Chinese take-out, Little Caesars Pizza-Pizza, and Arby’s. But this lesson goes beyond the kitchen, it
reminded me of my moms’ tenacity and her incomparable desire to be the best she
This woman fought a rare cancer for 16 years. She fought for two years prior to that to even
get a doctor to listen to her and believe something was wrong. She died on April 6, 2012. She did not die from cancer. Cancer did not win. She passed due to all the complications and
damage that years of chemotherapy had done to her heart and her lungs. She experienced remission three times! Her last breath was on her own terms, with
her family by her side, and with no shame.
Would she have wanted another day?
Absolutely. But she lived her
life and lived it well. She didn’t let
the little things, or the big things derail her for long. And when she noted a derailment, she made the
“We aren’t supposed to be perfect; we’re supposed to be
whole”. I heard Jane Fonda say that
once. We get whole by seeking out the
lessons, learning, rebuilding, and trying again. In the face or aftermath of disaster, we must
A picture of our meal, or even an Instant Pot seems appropriate. But instead, I decided to throw in some pics of the reason I keep moving. We all have them; we just need a reminder from time to time. Sure, some of these pictures remind me of heartache, rough times, lost love, and moments I’d love to bury. I won’t bury them because they remind me what I’ve learned and where I’ve come from.
MATH!!!! I consider myself to be fairly
intelligent. After homeschooling my
daughter for 5 years I think I’ve got the hang of pretty much everything but
complex chemistry because its dumb and I have no use for it (though it would
probably come in handy with this whole instant pot business). However, I have come to tell you that
children, especially teenagers, will turn you into the dumbest person in the
neighborhood. You doubt this statement?
I have proof!
My teenager came home with an
assignment to make a batch of cookies.
Great, we can do that! She gathered
the recipe and informed me that first, we must purchase cream of tartar. Of course, my response is, “nah . . . that’s
a fancy phrase for baking powder”. Forty-five
minutes later (I did a test batch to check my theory) and the nastiest
snickerdoodles I’ve ever tasted, we trucked ourselves to the local Piggly
Safely back at home, the kid goes
to work. The first step is to take a
recipe for two dozen cookies and break down the measurements to half of
that. Awesome, that’s math. Not her favorite subject, but I hammered this
stuff into her head for five years, surely, she can do this without me. Ten minutes later in prances my child with a recipe
and the conversions for ingredients. For
a moment I was certain my eyes were playing tricks on me. They were not.
2 ½ = 1 ½
2 ¾ = 1 ¾
Yeah . . . apparently, I must
educate today. Just so you are aware, I have
an internal gauge for my blood pressure.
In times like this there is a bar in the upper right-hand corner of my
vision field with 5 lights in succession from yellow to red (moving right to
left). They light up the more agitated I
get. I was already clearly at stage 1
because that first yellow light was quite blinding and the second one was
starting to blink as I looked at these conversions and wondered if either of us
would survive this assignment.
I took a breath (the second light
went dark!!!!) and explained that ½ does not mean you just take away a whole number. That doesn’t make any sense at all. Let me stop here and explain a little
something. When a child, any child, is
tasked with making cookies they do not give a crap about the process, they want
the cookies! I swear, this kid was
already drooling just knowing what was coming in her near future. Moving on, she huffed and puffed and marched
back to the kitchen counter to re-evaluate the situation. Stage 2 skipped the blinking period and
immediately lit up in a darker stage than the first.
From my perch in the living room I
can see everything. As I observe I
notice light number 3 start a slow blink.
I’m aware that my child is standing there utterly baffled by this NASA
level complication. So, I offer verbal
assistance. “Child! What is the denominator? What is the numerator? How many parts are in a whole?” Her response:
“Can I use a calculator?” You guessed
it, stage three is full blown orange and no longer blinking. This isn’t hard. I gave direction and a hint.
I directed this wonderful child of
mine to break down the original measurements into quarters. Her response was some form of “dollar quarters
or time quarters?” Obviously, my words came
quickly, harshly, and full of a level of sarcasm that would rival many of my
prior comebacks. “Uhhh . . . how about
cooking quarters?” I could go on to explain
the insanely ignorant conversation that ensued, but I’ll save you those five
minutes. I couldn’t save them for
myself, but I will do that for you.
Now that we have defined what a
quarter is, we can proceed. This child,
my child, a child I know has a brain, proceeds to announce that 11 has no half. It is a prime number, and this is the dumbest
recipe ever. I agree on the dumb part,
but I will reserve to whom or what it applies.
She can’t remember to comb her hair, but she knows 11 is a prime
number? Come on!!!!
After one of the most painful 4
minutes of my life, she managed to get out the measuring cups and realize that ½
and ¼ show her how many “parts” a whole has.
Another nail on chalk board two minutes later she uses these tools to
figure out that 5 ½ is the total of parts that she needs to convert. Are you confused? Because here is where things get ugly.
We’ve now invested well over 15
minutes into this conversion ordeal. I’ve
reached stage 4/5 in my journey to oblivion/maximum annoyance. My child, this wonderful cherub, reached her
own level 5 about 10 minutes ago. But we
press on, there are snickerdoodles on the line.
Mass confusion ensues because I’ve spent so much time explaining what the
“parts” represent that I’ve managed to uneducate myself and have no idea what ½
of ¾ is.
I’m not going to admit that to
her! So, I do math in my head. Nope, that’s not right. I do math out loud. Nope, now I sound kind of dumb. Finally, in a sudden moment of reality, I go
to google. Google responds quickly and
promptly with 6 tablespoons. Wait . . .
what?! You mean I was expected to calculate
a conversion to a different type of measurement? More importantly, why did I take on this
task? We have a smart home! Alexa is the queen bee around here.
And just like that my trader child
grabbed the measuring spoons, shook her head and called her fairly intelligent
mother an idiot. She’s pretty lucky that
stage 5 only blinked and that she has school tomorrow because survival would
have been questionable if things shifted any other way. I’d also like to add that the second idiot
involved in this little situation produced some sort of ok cookies . . . but
there’s no need to spill those beans.
Parenting. The word needs no introduction and it definitely needs no explanation. In my world, a world full of kids with traumatic backgrounds, parenting is a dirty word. My kids came to me with parents, what they needed was loving. So, I practice loving. Every breath, every step, every thought is centered (or supposed to be) around loving unconditionally and openly.
along with that loving comes an awful lot of humor. I have a great friend and mentor that passed
on some wisdom to me a few years ago.
She said, “don’t call someone stupid, that’s rude. But, by all means, call them an idiot”. Ironically, that is the direct opposite of
the actual definitions, but I like the way it sounds, so I’m sticking to
it. With that being said, I love and
raise idiots. Even the pets, all of
them, straight up idiots.
Why? Well, let me lay out some examples. One of the boys used to turn on the shower,
then dance around in the bathroom until he felt he had wasted enough time. Then come out in clean clothes and act as
though he had showered. Oh, did I forget
to say he was 15 at the time? Another
prime example would be one of my daughters that decided the best way to not get
caught stealing food and hiding it would be to cut a hole in her pillow and
stuff the evidence there. That’s great
if you actually cleaned your room and didn’t allow the hidden treasures to get
so severe that they were falling out of the pillow case.
I’ve got more. How about the time one of
the boys faked a football injury so he could have rub downs and private time
with the hot team trainer – for the entire season! The fakery went to the extent of x-rays and
cat scans and a specialist finally saying that there was nothing wrong. He got caught in the lie when he smelled
fried chicken and came running down the stairs . . . on the “injured” leg.
definitely get more in depth with the levels of idiot I experience each day,
but there is also a point to you and I coming together today. A long time ago I knew I wanted kids. I knew they would be my world, and I knew I
wouldn’t birth them. I actually sat in
my doctor’s office at the age of 15 and begged the lady to cut out my “woman parts”
and get it over with. I had and still
have no use for them. Of course, she
refused sighting some “first do no harm” clause. Anyway, fostering and adopting kids has
always been a dream of mine. There are
plenty of kids that need a home and a chance, I wanted to be those things for
anybody that would come.
after our first year of marriage my used-to-be husband and I got approved as
foster parents and the fun began. We
were very open about only taking in teens because that was the age group that
was overlooked by most foster/adoptive families in our area. We also sought kids that had traumatic pasts,
due to my own education and profession, and were very open to special needs
limitations, etc. Basically, we wanted
the kids that everyone else passed on.
And we definitely had no desire to take on any child younger than 12.
story unfolds, you’ll see a lot of ups and downs. But in all honesty, I wouldn’t be where I am
today without everything I’ve experienced.
God has blessed me with the ability to find humor and happiness in
almost any situation, and practicing love with my family has been the funniest
experience I’ve ever had. Someone asked
me once, “what should a reader walk away with”?
I smiled and was very clear, “I want them to laugh and be ok with
it”. Kids, family, work, life . . . it’s
not meant to be easy. It’s meant to
build character and exact purpose. If we
can’t find the humor in what we live through, then we most certainly aren’t
finding the lesson either. Because, what
I want to you walk away with is this: WHEN WE SEEK THE LESSONS IN LIFE, WE STUMBLE
UPON THE HUMOR OF THIS THING WE CALL LIVING.
I have had the greatest honor by being the parent of more kids than I can count. Now, I use the word “parent” loosely because I certainly am not on all their birth certificates. Heck, some of them may not even know how to spell my name correctly, let alone pronounce it. I define “parent” as a person that guides and protects. Over the years I have guided and protected hundreds of kids. But, to appease those of you traditionalist, I have had 8 wonderfully talented, beautiful, and welcome children in my home at one point or another. Those relationships are so sacred that I can’t imagine my life without each one of them. Gah . . . it’s not time for the mushy stuff yet! Back to “parenting”.
During one of my excursions as an Assistant Camp Director for the YMCA I learned how to make homemade pretzels. Not being satisfied with the outcome, I tweaked the recipe and started making homemade cinnamon rolls. I taught this wonderful skill to hundreds of kids, parents, and staff over the course of 18 months. I only bring this up because it is the example I use when explaining to my kids about my unchangeable rule on fighting. When you smell a hot and fresh cinnamon roll, one of the first things you do is go to grab it. Forget the fact that it just came out of a 400-degree oven; or that you can visibly see the butter, icing, and other sorts of yummy goodness oozing out of it. It’s human nature to snatch it up, bite it and drop it while fanning your mouth because you have just sustained third degree burns to your tongue and roof of your mouth.
My rule is straight forward. I don’t care if Goliath himself is staring
you down. I don’t care if you are
certain your death is eminent. If in a
situation where physical violence is about to or has already begun, you had
better “drop it like its hot”!
Hit the deck, kiss the floor, dodge the ball, turn the other cheek,
offer them a candy bar, do anything but do not engage! Mama will not tolerate your hands touching
anyone else is a way that is harmful or violent. That, my loves, will be the end of your fun
and happy life for a long and dreadful period.
Of all the lessons I’ve had the joy and heartache of teaching, this has been the hardest. In our world it is such a foreign concept to communicate and be constructive, rather than destructive. I wasn’t raised to be non-physical, that could very well lead to why I am such a strong advocate for it now. Nothing good can come from hitting another person. Status? Well, let me tell you, status comes and goes. I was popular last week, and then I passed gas from the piano on Sunday and all of a sudden, I’ve been avoided like a plague. Status has no value and no purpose. Reputation, my kids would say. “Mom, I gotta let know I don’t play like that”. My response, every time, would be, “No, you don’t play like that . . . ever”.
You see, its much harder to be a person of words, than a
person of strength and intimidation.
Words take intelligence, they take practice, they take courage, and most
of all they take humility. Anyone can
learn to throw a punch with a little practice, but learning the art of defusing
a dangerous or violent situation is a work in progress. My kids learned that they won’t always
succeed, and they will probably get their butts kicked, but in the end, one
day, they will see that it took way more ability to abstain than it did to
clock someone in the jaw.
At one point we had three teenage boys, all 16, in the house at the same time. Not only were they the same age, but they were only separated by about a 14-week span in age difference. As you can guess, this created some healthy tension in competition and that unfortunate attitude of “status”. One of the boys deemed himself head honcho because he was the first one to live there, another of the boys demanded acknowledgement of his presence simply because he was bigger and stronger, and then the third (my favorite) sat back in his chair with an air of “I’m better and I don’t even have to prove it”. While in the middle of a move to a new town, the boys were left to pack up the basement. The basement consisted of my home office, our pantry overflow, general storage, and the kids game room and chill space. Now, over the years I learned that the only way to combat idiocy with my kids was to install cameras. However, the most amusing part of having your house on 24/7 surveillance will be the times that your kids forget that the walls have eyes. Whilst packing, my lovely boys got into a turf war and guess who got beat up? The strong and mighty took the fall . . . and my chill relaxed favorite knocked his lights out.
I never said my kids followed the rules. But these are teachable moments. And I taught. . . to the tune of 50 boxes of books that had to be moved up two flights of stairs and out to the garage. And those boxes, well, they could only be moved on Friday nights and Saturday afternoons and evenings. My point was well made, nothing good comes from putting your hands on another person.
I once joked with my ex-husband that I was against physical violence simply because I knew I could never win a fight. I much rather offer my adversary a candy bar and be on my way. I mean, who can turn down a candy bar? And if you can, we should meet, I need to get inside your brain. But my joke was simply a smoke screen. I grew up in the church. I was taught, by all the adults in my life, save my parents, that the human body is to be treasured and appreciated. And more importantly, that words have power. I am sure there is some amazing research on how many fights are the result of miscommunications. I’m not privy to that research, but it’s probably out there somewhere. Think about it, how many times a day, or week, or month, or year, do you get angry because you think you thought you heard someone possibly say they might have heard that you were maybe thinking about doing something that could probably make them or someone they knew upset? Did you follow that? Anger serves us no positive return. All anger does is zap you of the energy you’ve worked so hard to build up. If we are continually draining ourselves by being angry at others, then who are we slighting? Our mates, our kids, our friends, ourselves? Drop it like its hot, my friends. Give it time to cool off, its worth it. Maybe not immediately, but someday you will see the benefit. Walking away doesn’t make you weak, it actually shows tremendous strength.
Do you think music has changed over the years? The other day I was relaxing and chatting with my amazing little four-year-old granddaughter, Ari. In the background the Beatles “Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da” was bopping away and Ari was humming and swaying to the music. It got me thinking, does the music we hear now affect us the way music did when we were younger? Let’s discuss . . .
My mom was an interesting character. She was a strong independent and opinionated woman. She paved a path thought to be unconventional and often exceled at anything she set out to do. Anyone that spent a few hours with her walked away knowing her love of music. My siblings and I were raised with a fantastic musical tapestry to highlight not just moments, but life in general. We grew up on Jim Croce, Elton John, Billy Joel, Iron Butterfly, George Michael, Paul McCartney, The Beatles, Wham, Chicago, Phil Collins, The Carpenters, Don McLean, Anne Murray, and so many others I can’t even begin to name them all. But these here, these were the classics that forged a musical medley for everyone in our household.
Road trips are etched in my memory not for the excitement and destinations, but for the “mix” tapes mom would make in preparation for the car rides. I use the term “mix” loosely because the woman didn’t mix anything! She would record one song, back-to-back, over and over, one after the other for the entire side of a cassette tape. If we were lucky, she’d change it up and have a different song on the B side. We weren’t always lucky. This, my friends, is the sole reason I know every word to “Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go”, “Careless Whispers”, and “Love Song”.
These artists and their tunes are simple. Simple isn’t bad, don’t get me wrong, but it is so different from what I hear when I turn on the radio or give Alexa a bit of choice in my song selections. Play a few older songs, then turn on the radio. Do you notice the difference? I won’t lyric hate. I believe that if all the annoyance and distraction is stripped away from several modern songs, the lyrics are stunning and can and do stand on their own. But when did it become necessary to add all that junk in behind the words? I’ve learned in my old age that I like simple. I love the genuine flow of a song that allows the words to do all the work, no bass drop needed.
I will also admit that these older songs aren’t always peppy. That’s for another discussion! My kids will openly inform you that I’m boring and my music is like attending a funeral. That is not true! But I do like calm tunes to back up my day. I can get excited and rowdy all on my own, I don’t need music to yell at me and tell me to “jump” or that “thunder” is coming.
Where am I going with this? I have no idea. But I will say this, music transports me. Music has become not only my soul grounder, but my way of communication. Life gets messy and we forget to stop and take a minute or three for ourselves. Take time today to sit and listen to a song you haven’t heard in a while. Before you know it, it’ll be 35 minutes later, and you’ll have taken a journey in your head to places near and far. Even better, share those songs with your kids! When my kids are caught humming songs from well before their time, I count it as a parenting win. Are you winning today?
As much as I love all genres of music, nothing gets me like the oldies. Phil Collins knew me well; Rod Stewart speaks my language, and in the calm of the night, Paul, Ringo, John, and George sung me many lullaby’s. Rhianna, Imagine Dragons, and Ed Sheeran just don’t have the same effect on me.
Music sets me apart from everything around me. Bad days, toxic people, and just nothing going my way can be instantly reversed by listening, singing, or playing music.
I was fortunate as a child to be surrounded by both a parent who LOVED music and a church that embraced it as a tool of service. Music taught me determination, what it is to emote, and mostly that somethings just aren’t expressed in words.
I am writing this from a low point. No seriously, I’m lying on the floor with my feet up on the couch to realign my back. But I am also writing from an emotional low. I had a kitchen fail. You know how it goes. You get a new appliance and you try to make something that you’ve always made a certain way. You want to join the crowd and want to give it an A+ effort. I sat back and listened to 18 months of success stories. Tales of fantastic meals and mouthwatering pictures. In a midnight, peer pressured moment of weakness, I caved. I bought an instant pot. I am attracted to accessories. I love them. I think they are far better than the actual products they are intended to support. So when our mutual Amazon browsing event led us to oogling all the cool accessories, we were left with very few options.
So, while googling over
all the different accessories for an instant pot, I obviously had to buy the
actual pot in order to enjoy them. And buy the pot, I did! I bought the best;
the biggest; and the most excessive pot available. It arrived and I made my
first meal. I turned a family recipe that typically takes 8 to 10 hours into a 20-minute
pot of deliciousness. Cranberry chicken, tender and plump rice, red sauce,
chunky cranberries . . . it was amazing.
Obviously, I was hooked. However,
that first meal requires a bit of a storytelling moment. You see, nobody told
me that it was loud. Nobody told me that I would likely jump when it got loud.
Nobody told me that I really needed to read the directions. So, when I operated
the instant pot for the first time using the QuickStart guide it is completely
acceptable that in the moment the steam escaped and made a loud hissing sound (much
like a rattlesnake) I JUMPED. In my sudden moment of fear, I managed to slap
myself … with a boob. I forgot to
mention one more missed warning I never received: nobody told me that my own
body appendages would assault me during this cooking process. Needless to say, I wear a bra when I use my
instant pot now.
Moving onto my failure.
The first meal was a success, so I went for the homerun. I gathered my
ingredients and decided to tackle pot roast. If this magical pot can make my
chicken tender and juicy in 20 minutes, then how could it not pressure cook my
pot roast into submission? I measured my liquids. Seared my roast. Sliced my
onions and gathered my potatoes. The layering was beautiful. I learned about the “burn” warning and made
sure I took the steps to prevent that disaster. After all this care, I
proceeded to close the lid. Sidebar . .
.does everyone else look stupid when they close the lid? That’s just a general
25 minutes later I armed
myself with body armor, flipped the steam valve and jumped back. I patiently
waited for the first site of my masterpiece. I cracked the lid, the machine sang
me a song, the smoke started to come out, and the smell took over. My roast was
Aaaaaaaaaannnd then I
touched it. Not fall apart; not loosey-goosey; and definitely NOT my pot roast.
“Do it again”, my evil spirit told me. “Cook it longer”, the spirit whispered. “How
could it hurt”, the little devil said. So, I snatched broth for gravy, plucked
my potatoes from the drought, sealed the capsule, and hit pressure cook. While
my meat took soak #2, I prepared my sides.
Let me just tell you right now, it didn’t work out. I made some amazing potatoes. My gravy was on point. But the roast? That piece of meat was dead to me. I’ve come to learn that no matter how many times you pressure cook a roast, if it didn’t come out right the first time, it probably won’t come out right the second time or even the fifth time. Failure. I’ve been bested by an electronic. Crushed. Beaten down. Decimated. How can I go on trusting this thing?
So now what do I do I’ve
spent all this money I have this beautiful kitchen appliance and yet it smacked
me in the face. Do I get back up? Do I go buy more roast? My old way was just
fine. I like it it. Slow cooking worked
for me. Why do I need to change? Oh . . . the accessories. I must press on.
I will stand up and I fight
because, I have a dream. One day we will sit hand-in-hand eating a juicy fall
apart roast. And that satan machine will
be the one to do it! I have a dream. But for now, I’m a failure. Press on, we
So, to all you instant
pot lovers of the world and all of you other people sitting on the couch,
reading this at work, or doing whatever it is you do with your day; take note,
I will not back down. This is a lesson for everybody. Don’t let innovation beat
you down. If you’re an android person don’t be afraid of the Apple. If you’re
an Apple person, well, you’ve already won that battle. And, if you are an Insta pot failure, join me
as we forge ahead. Arm yourselves, it’s time to show this pot that it may have
won the battle, but the war has only just begun.
Until we meat again Sir IP . . . until we meat again.