Going to Pot

I'm a pretty simple person.  That's not a confession or an admission.  It's just a fact.  That's why I don't like to be busy or weighed down with needless things, like mascara or purses or motion-activated security lights. 

I understand that the world cares not a whit about my inclinations.  That's why, back in the fall of 1999, when I was standing in the Anderson Ford parking lot, I grudgingly made my peace with the fact that my "new" car (an early 90s Nissan Sentra) would have electric windows.  

". . . because every car has 'em," the salesman claimed.

Yeah, right. 

Pffft.

So, what in the name of all that is good and holy was I thinking last week, when I went onto Amazon (now referred to as "Damnazon") and bought myself a newfangled, highly computerized kitchen implement that would make Ron Popiel choke on a beautiful julienne fry?! And how on earth could a six-quart container need so much packaging?  

When I saw the box, which took up most of our living room, I poured myself a stiff drink and mumbled an apology to Mark, who, I'm sure, was calculating just how many guilt-free Ebay purchases this abomination would allow him to make. 

I poured myself another drink before I had the nerve to open the box.  It was like one of those Russian nesting dolls--box tucked inside box tucked inside box. . . .  Finally, our kitchen floor covered in cardboard and plastic and styrofoam, there it stood, the Instant Pot, taller than Finn by a hand.  And shinier, too.

My first mistake (actually, my second, if you are counting what I did on Damnazon--and you should) was picking up the literature.  Pages two and three were devoted to warnings--19 in all!  

It's possible I'd have poured a third drink, but the 19th warning was explicit--Put Down the Gin!

Three days and two-hours-on-Pinterest-that-I'll-never-get-back later, there's a pork butt and some ribs sitting in the fridge.  I still haven't touched the Instant Pot since cramming it into our cupboard, but this is all about the baby steps, people.  Or, more accurately, baby-back steps.  

Don't worry.  I'm off the gin.  It's clear that this thing will require a sober mind and kung-fu focus.  

Maybe I should have kept those boxes . . . .