"You can't do that!" she shrieked. She went on that I had mentioned some time ago that I might stop in on my way moving home from Arizona to Vermont. "She's expecting you!"
A stop at my grandmother's would add about five hours. I had driven nonstop in a Volkswagen Fox (that eventually died one mile from my dad's at the end of the journey and never ran again) that was so packed with my belongings that I only had one butt cheek on the driver's seat. With my aunt's guilt-trip ringing in my ears, I stopped at Grammy's.
She fed me, and we visited. I did keep it brief since I hadn't slept in two days. I only misspoke once: I mentioned that I fit all my belongings in my car except my mini-Crock Pot which I bequeathed to my old housemate. I just couldn't fit it in my car. And my then-75-year-old grandmother sprang into action. She hurried into her garage and leaned a ladder against the loft. Despite my protests, she climbed the ladder and, out of my sight, started moving stuff. Heavy stuff, from the sounds of it.
She finally found what she was looking for: the Crock Pot pictured above. I could have this one, she said.
She didn't understand; the reason I had left mine out west was because there was literally not a square inch of space inside the car for it. I couldn't fit a Crock Pot in my car. She insisted that I take hers. She said she never used it anymore because it was too big for just one person (the argument that I too was unattached at the time carried no weight), and she wouldn't take no for an answer. I finally tied it to my (already full) roof rack with a bungy cord. It clanged every inch of the final 150 miles home.
I have lived in Vermont for the last 17 years. I still have my grandmother's Crock Pot. Tonight we had a hearty vegetable stew. We have made countless chilis and soups. We love this cooking tool. Thank you Grammy... your Crock Pot has been put to very good use.
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