What A Crock!

(Author's Note: As with all my blog postings, the story you're about to read is true. Truly. You can't make this stuff up!)

From even before they ever emit that first loud and lusty wail, our children forever change our lives. And, sons, in particular, just have a way of bringing out the inner Jewish Mother in us because for at least 18 years, our overriding daily concern for them is that they are not only happy and healthy, but also well-fed. Who, amongst us mothers-of-sons, hasn't experienced the phenomenon of watching our grocery bills literally triple overnight as we fight the losing battle to keep teen sons nourished?

It's a nagging worry that doesn't just leave with them when they head off to college, either. Even when both our boys lived on campus, armed to the teeth with full-ride meal tickets carrying unlimited breakfasts, lunches and dinners (and which, in retrospect, I'm sure they seldom used), I insisted on a grocery-store run each time we visited, just to make sure they had plenty of snacks on hand if nothing else.

And so, it was in that spirit that I hatched what I believed to be one of the most brilliant multi-tasking maneuvers ever attempted by any mom, anywhere!

Like so many of my goofy antics, this one was rooted in a road-trip. I was scheduled for a client meeting in East Tennessee and, on such occasions, First-Born Son graciously allowed me to crash at the Knoxville bachelor pad he had occupied since graduating Rocky Top (the University of Tennessee). Now, when he decided he'd had quite enough of the Animal House he and his three roommates had created and that his $7-an-hour first job at the Knoxville Zoo (we were an animal science major, after all!) would pay the rent for an apartment all his own, he moved - no, make that we moved a U-Haul full of furniture up I-40 - into his freshly-painted, newly-carpeted one-bedroom pad in West Knoxville.

As a conscientious mother, I made sure his place was impeccably decorated (we did a total safari theme in honor of that zoo job) and fully-equipped, meaning a kitchen that would rival Emeril's in terms of pots, pans, gadgets and pantry staples. That he had cookware, flatware, glassware, barware, serving-ware and matching dishes (not to mention every small appliance ever manufactured) was just a parent-provided-bonus I was sure he would come to appreciate once he started preparing himself all those home-cooked meals. Never mind that I hadn't ever exactly taught him how to cook!!

(I take that back. There was the time he got to missing his mama's deviled eggs - apparently his favorite food (who knew???) - and he called me - with a dozen fully-boiled eggs, peeled in the pan - asking, 'how do I make them taste like yours?' Touched to the bottom of my heart, I talked him through all the cutting, gutting, doctoring and restuffing only to find out later that he ate the entire 24 halves in one sitting. It was at least two more Easters before he could even look at a deviled egg without turning slightly green).

On each subsequent parental visit to The Pad, Dad would occupy himself making sure all the electronics were appropriately connected, while I would inventory pantry and 'frig and head to Wally-World or Kroger or Food City for provisions. But, after awhile, it became increasingly apparent that the food supply really wasn't diminishing all that much. We would take First-Born and whatever girlfriend-du-jour out to dinner and watch him devour his entree and the remains of ours like one of those starving Third World urchins, yet back at The Pad, his fully-stocked refrigerator, cabinets and pantry were approaching museum-type status. Can you say petrified??

So, I decided that perhaps a bit of inspiration was in order. And, that is how I struck upon the idea of taking my First Born Baby Boy a home-cooked dinner fresh from the farm. Planning around that upcoming road trip, I reasoned that I would finish my meeting in Sevierville and get back to The Pad in time to have a hot "meat and three" ready - and, what the hey, served on those as-yet-unused dishes on the as-yet-unused dining room table - when he got home from work! By proving to him that the stove did actually work , I hoped that seeing just how homey his place could be might motivate him to actually open one of those 10 boxes of Kraft Macaroni & Cheese or Hamburger Helper and fix his own supper!

Dare to dream................

As is my custom, I was packing while watching the 10 PM news the night before my planned ETD (Estimated Time of Departure) at "dark-thirty" the next morning. I had fished a pot roast out of the freezer, thinking I might just let it partially cook before bedtime and I could finish it the next afternoon. But, at some point between the weather and sports, Eureka! - it dawned on me that, lurking somewhere in the back corner of a kitchen cabinet, was a Rival Crock Pot that hadn't seen action in years. And, that revelation is what convinced me I could just go on to bed and let that pot roast sleep in the freezer all night and I'd still be able to deliver it hot and ready-to-eat as planned.

Since my work makes me a road-hog to the tune of about 35,000 miles each year, my vehicle is tricked out with just about every kind of electronic gadget imaginable. Before wireless computing went mainstream, I once even rigged a system that allowed me to receive a fax on the road by hooking my cell-phone to my laptop in the passenger’s seat of my rolling office. With the advent of newer technology, I acquired a power converter that allowed me to plug in my laptop, erasing any possbility of a dead computer battery. Thinking about that long-forgotten crock pot, I connected some very dangerous dots in my brain that helped me "cook up" my hare-brained idea.

As Hubby followed me to the car the next morning, loading my suitcase into the trunk, he weighed in with his opinion while I fumbled with the plug adapter thingy and the crock pot cord. "Dingbat," (his charming term of endearment for me these last 33 years) "you've really lost it this time. There's no way that adapter is going to pull enough power to heat that crockpot, let alone cook a frozen roast!" (Honestly, sometimes, that man's habit of applying logic to everything drives me up a wall!)

"Why not?" I demanded, as I wedged the crock pot securely between my overstuffed briefcase and a box of brochures on the passenger's side floor. Without waiting for his answer, I defiantly popped the adapter plug into the car's cigarette lighter. This whole thing made perfect sense to me. In what I considered a brilliant example of multi-tasking efficiency, the crock pot could do its thing for the next 4.5 hours and once I reached Knoxville, I would drop it off at The Pad, toss in some potatoes, carrots and onions, connect it to a conventional plug, and head to my meeting, confident that dinner would be ready by the time I returned that evening.

Off I drove into the pre-dawn fog that had settled around Hughey Hill, watching Hubby in the rear view mirror as he rolled his eyes, shook his head and walked back into the house.

Taking my preferred backroads route, I was approaching the on-ramp to I-40 about 2.5 hours later, my plan progressing flawlessly (given that my little PT Cruiser smelled just like Arby's), when the cell phone rang. Hubby was checking in, certain that I was stranded on the side of the road somewhere waiting on the firetrucks to arrive.

"HA!" I bellowed into the phone as I careened up the ramp. "This is working like a charm! Why didn't I think of this before?" And it was at that exact moment I heard what I could've sworn was either a blown tire or a tractor trailer truck backfiring. The POP was so loud and startling, I was momentarily disoriented as I quickly checked every mirror to make sure another vehicle wasn't careening wildly out of control and in my direction. What I was NOT expecting to see as I merged into the right lane of Eastbound I-40 - cell phone in one hand, the other firmly gripping the wheel - was the impressive curl of black smoke wafting up from the adapter plug.

"Oh, no!" I shouted. "Gotta go!!!"

Instinctively, I grabbed the adapter out of the cigarette lighter and in doing so, literally experienced the definition of red-hot! Thus began a wild game of "hot potato" starring me, my cell phone and one molten hot electrical gadget. Thank God it was a straight stretch of interstate as I steered with my knee for a good two miles while this insane juggling act continued. Not sure I hadn't shorted out the car's entire electrical system or ignited a smoldering under-hood fire, I slowed to the speed limit, half-expecting the car to just up and die on me at any moment.

Of course, worse than worrying about any damage I'd done to the car, was the prospect of calling Hubby back to explain why I had so abruptly ended our earlier phone conversation. I despise giving him a reason to say, "Toldja so!"

I made it to The Pad without anything (else) blowing up. Once inside, I inspected the crock pot cord for signs of frazzling or melting, but it looked fine. Still, I wasn't about to plug it in and leave for any length of time and wind up torching an entire apartment complex in the process. I plunked the whole thing in the refrigerator and went off to my meeting. Much later that afternoon, I returned, plugged in the crock pot and watched it like a hawk while that stupid roast finished cooking. I figured if it didn't ignite after a couple of hours, it was safe to use.

And, that night, First Born Son walked into his apartment to find his dining room table set with matching dishes and a Hughey-Hill-raised-roast-beef as the centerpiece of a meal that included mashed potatoes, veggies, hot rolls and a pecan pie for dessert. Watching my son devour his dinner as he looked around appreciatively at his freshly-cleaned apartment, I realized my plan really DID come off without much of a hitch!

As for his petrified pantry and cabinet contents?

I left those for for his fiancee' to deal with when he moved out a year later.