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 question.
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 done.
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 must.
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.