For decades, I swore I hated anything that came out of a crockpot.
I can’t even remember why, but I’m guessing it had to do with what came out of it.
It wasn’t until I started living in apartments with kitchens (sophomore year of college) that I realized it wasn’t the tool I hated, but how I thought it had to be used.
Once I found slow-cooker recipes I loved, I couldn’t get enough.
Chicken that fell off the bone, but was never overcooked. (IMO, nothing is worse than a dry bird — absolutely inedible.)
Stews. Lentils. Soups. Cider. Chili.
As a New Englander, my young adulthood transformed into a constant craving for warm meals ready and waiting by the time I was finally ready to sit down and eat.
Low and slow became my way. Still is.
This morning, after immunotherapy fatigue settled in, I decided to match my pace to what felt right. No rushing. Just enough.
Coffee and donuts for the family. Dropping Briggs and Zara at Ken’s. Heading to see my nephew. Somehow, timing stayed on my side.
That’s when I remembered: this lesson isn’t just about cooking.
When I’m working with someone, no one is faster than me. (Anyone who’s hired or worked with me knows this.)
But I’m at my best when I slow down. When I notice. When I savor what’s in front of me — whether it’s boring, overwhelming, or somewhere in between.
So yes, I’m calling this my slow cooker era.
Still capable of speed when needed.
But more committed to patience, presence, and flavor.
Bring on the apples, the pumpkins, the squash, the hot coffee.
And always the chicken that falls off the bone.
OMG - have you ever used this exact pasta in a slow cooker dish? To die for.