I hate my Crockpot right now.
This morning, I put about two cups of dry black beans, a can of diced tomatoes, a big old smoked ham hock, a couple whacked-up cloves of garlic, a small can of diced jalapenos, some cilantro and cumin in there, added water to cover, and turned it on with the expectation that I could, you know, ignore it until shortly before dinner time, when I’d need to add some caramelized onions from the freezer and chopped up smoked beef steak from the fridge, nudge the spices a bit in the ‘chili’ direction (but not too far, because I don’t want to lose the caramelized onion flavor, because that would be downright criminal)…and maybe make some cornbread, because I’m pretty sure there’s an actual law that says you have to have cornbread with even faux chili.
BUT NO. I can’t ignore it. Because you know what it’s doing right now?
It’s sending this smell through the whole house. This insanely rich, savory smell.
It’s wafting up the stairs. It’s drifting down the halls. It’s curling up on the front porch like a smug, overfed cat.
There are still a whole lotta hours between now and dinner-time, and it is making me continually hungry this afternoon.
And I think the beans are actually probably getting close to done already, too.
It is entirely possible that I will have dinner for afternoon tea.
And then have it again in a few hours.
And when my jeans don’t fit right tomorrow? => I will blame the Crockpot manufacturers, because, uh…well…WELL, CLEARLY, they did not make the lid tight-fitting enough on this thing.