I am not, nor have I ever been, a crockpot kinda gal. I felt obligated to put it on our wedding wish list and with the resulting gift certificates, D and I bought a big beautiful one. It has a built-in porcelain serving dish embossed with lovely patterns and it's big enough to comfortably stew Mr. Marmalade should the need arise (hey, I'm just saying...). But I don't really like it. It's too clunky for the counter, and too unwieldy to carry up from the basement for any type of frequent use.
Several of my friends extol the virtues of crockpots. "Oh, it's so easy!" they say. "You hardly need any ingredients. And your whole house will smell wonderful when you walk in the door." So I broke down last night, hauled Monsieur CroquePotte out of the basement and he is now busily making us some Cranberry Chicken for supper. (Heck, that 8lb bag of muskoka cranberries Nana gave me last summer has got to get used up SOMETIME).
I went out at noon to pick up a parcel at the post office (How to Child Proof Your Dog) and stuffed myself with a marvellous Chinese buffet lunch at the New Seasons restaurant for $10. An hour later, I drove home, anticipating the wonderful aroma of M. CroquePotte's artistry when I opened the door. Well, there's an aroma all right, but it ain't wonderful. In fact, it smells like someone took a bottle of ketchup and sprayed it on every surface of my kitchen. I had my suspicions when I read the recipe - really, ketchup should only be used on hot dogs and in sloppy joes - but I wanted to join the ranks of the crock pot elite so I took a chance. I can just hear D now: "So what is this? Ketchup chicken?"
I will report back on the results of my crankpot cooking in a future entry, provided I haven't expired of crock-pot related poisoning.