When I said that I had mastered the art of cooking, and that my old nemesis, the dreaded crock pot, was bending to my will, I was just kidding.
Seriously. What I meant to write was that this one time, I managed to cook something in a crock pot for the appropriate amount of time. And then I got cocky. That metaphoric pat on the back that I gave myself did, in fact, come back to haunt me. My dad warned me about the dangers of such self-congratulation, but I didn’t listen.
How is it possible that I can graduate from college with honors, but I cannot assert my authority over an inanimate object? One of life’s great mysteries.
In my attempt to compensate for my over-cooked chicken, I got the bright idea to try using partially-thawed chicken. I had put it in the fridge to thaw, but it didn’t defrost quite fast enough for me, so I figured, hey, just throw it in anyway. In fact, I was congratulating myself on my clever solution to the eternal quandary — how slow is a slow cooker?