I Heart My Slow Cooker

There was a time, believe it or not, when the slow cooker was the 8-track stereo of the kitchen. Dumpy, tacky, and (of course) slow, it was designed for cooking things like beans, beanie-weenies, or even just weenies by themselves. Lil' smokies, we call 'em. Times have changed, of course, thanks to the likes of William Sonoma, Sur la Table, and the merchants and pushers of kitchen porn.

Thank goodness! In time, I hope all the vessels of kooky cookery will continue to make themselves available in overpriced -- albeit elegantly presented-- brushed-steel form. The electric griddle. The fondue pot. The chafing dish. The pressure cooker. The salad spinner.

Have I missed anything?

They're all back, it seems. And as P1 proved yet again on Saturday (and to marvelous effect, I should mention) the ice-cream maker has also returned with renewed force-- and with technological enhancements. We received one of our own as a "free" gift with our mortgage. Might this even be a new totem appliance of the rural bourgeoisie, second only to the Kitchen Aid mixer?

Surely it is the destiny of 1980s-vintage mode of useless kitchen equipment, which includes the likes of bread machines, hot dog cookers, iced-tea makers, and yogurt generators, to make similar advances. Perhaps this has already happened. Is there not indeed a brushed-steel Foreman Grill somewhere on the market? And, mark my words, such devices will appeal to more than just the desperate christmas shopper. These things will find their way into la cuisine légitime. Mark my words. I'm just waiting for the baguette-maker 3000. Although I admit that the name "BM 30o0" could use a little marketing savvy.

But to return to the vanguard of this culinary renaissance: I love my slow cooker. In the years since we received it as a wedding gift (of course), we've used it for tasks as diverse as mulling cider and stewing tripe. The latter was my clever super-bowl-party substitution for the more standard-issue batch of lil' smokies. It was a resoundingly unpopular decision.

We've used the slow cooker for other things, too, like preparing the morning's oatmeal before going to bed, and braising various shanks, chops, and ribs throughout the day. I alternate making pot-au-feu in the dutch oven and in the slow cooker; each works just as well as the other.

Our dinner these past two evenings offer representative uses of this now-stalwart kitchen apparatus. Last night I more or less invented a braised pork rib and napa cabbage dish. It was more or less successful. The braising liquid was seasoned with star anis and tangerine peel, along with garlic, scallions, hot bean paste, and a little bit of coriander. Were I to serve this formally, I might call it "Strange Flavor Pork with Cabbage," or possibly "Pork and Cabbage with Strange Flavor."

Incidentally, it never quite feels like cooking when you use the slow cooker. It's really more a question of assembly. Or assemblage, I should say. Last night was something of an exception, insofar as I reduced the cooking liquid in a separate pan; this, you might say, constitutes cooking.

But it didn't end there. This apparatus knows no limits. The following morning, as the crock-pot base lay drying on the rack, I thought twice about putting it back in the cabinet. "Why not make some beans?" I thought to myself. So I did.

A quartered onion, six cups of water, a splash of vegetable oil, and a bay leaf, all nestled in the pot alongside a rinsed pound of red beans. Eight effortless hours later, there were beans to be had. Beans that required salt, no doubt. But not the salt of labor, of sweat, or of tears. Just the salt of flavor.

We mashed them up in a skillet with some minced garlic and served them as the filling for soft tacos.

And tomorrow? Rice pudding? Split pea soup? Or maybe I should simply put it away and wait for someone to invent the BM3000.