Little Crock

One little, two little, three little Indians. Four little, five little six Indians. Seven little, eight little, nine little Indians. Ten little Indian boys and girls. The songs of my youth and yet, add in the eleventh little Indian and you would have my family. Six boys and five girls made up my family. A large Indian family we were.

Meals in my childhood home were prepared and set on a large round oak table and children were packed around it like sardines. Meager, humble and filling meals were made by my mother. Most of the ingredients were grown in our family gardens. I remember many of nights eating bland and spice less foods my mother made. Yet, you didn't dare complain or you would go to bed with an empty stomach so one would just eat what was given. Mom provided and if we didn't eat, that was our problem.

Every meal was made in large pots filled to feed the masses. As I grew, I too learned how to cook for many. Cast iron pans filled with sizzling meats, large enamel pots with boiling potatoes and simmering pans filled with garden veggies. On bread making day, loaves of rising dough lined the countertop from one end to the other. Dinner rolls only happened on holidays for they took extra effort to make. Soups were served hot with frybread fresh from the frypan. I remember lathering loads of butter on them and watch it soak into the white bread. There wasn't a small meal made in my mother kitchen for she had a ton of kids to feed.

Today, I could still throw down a feast to feed the masses but I don't have to. My siblings have gone their own way and my children are busy building their own lives. So, I am left to cook just for me. One small crockpot and a few pans is all I need now. (author pauses to take a deep sniff at the air) Today, I have a 5 cup crockpot cooking my dinner in my small apartment. Today I only cook for me and I have had to learn to not to cook for a load of people.

Once I grew up and became exposed to spices, I learned the basic art of cooking. Amazingly how my world opened up once this happened. My mother only cooked with onion, green peppers, celery, salt and pepper. Today, I have a whole medley of spices to choose from and one could see that I love to eat those spices in a variety of ways.

Oh, I am not a chef by any means but the creations I do make are to my taste. To plan, cook a meal and eat is a way to show oneself love. However, when I am sad, my comfort food is bland like how mom use to make it. Tomatoes and noodles slathered in butter. Spaghetti noodles with a can of tuna and butter were often our lunch. Hot corn meal mush with buttered toast was often on the breakfast table. Those meals today are like a warm hug from my mother. However, her goulash was miserable to eat so I have "tweaked it" to my liking and I can smell its delightful smells loft through the air. No, I am not a chef and me raving about my goulash shows that I am not too adventurous.

Now, my little crockpot really has been a blessing. I have learned to downsize my cooking practices considerably. When my children moved on, I had to learn how to downsize the amount I cooked. I spent way too many days eating the same meal every night for a full week. Now, I cook a dinner in the small crock pot and I have the left overs for my lunch the next day. One pot meals has been a blessing for I waste nothing.

One thing I have learned with cooking with the small crock pot is, this is an act of self love. I wake, prepare it to cook while I work, and I know it is waiting there for me when I get home. I look forward to the hot bowl of soup I will have at the day's end. The spices had added to the pot would cook the whole day. When I get home, I smell the delicious meal like a warm hug when I pass through the door. It is as though, I loved myself enough to give myself this gift at the end of the day.

Adjusting to the crockpot has been a challenge though. One pound of hamburger can give me 4 separate meals in the crockpot. I had to learn to freeze the meat in a Ziplock bag, section out quarters for easy removal from the bag once it was frozen. I do the same thing with chicken except I usually cut up the breast into bite sized pieces before freezing. Onions are peeled, chopped and frozen to be able to break off small portions to throw in the crock pot. Preparation for the mini crockpot took time to learn and I had to adjust after being taught how to cook for the masses as a teen. Downsizing was a big challenge.

I am truly thankful for this time alone though. I really do not mind eating alone anymore because I feel as if I love myself. If I want a nice stew, I make it. If I want a hearty chicken soup, I can whip it up and walk away. I look forward to my creations. I learn what I like and what I don't like. I judge myself from time to time, but I don't have to listen to other's disapproval in the process of my exploration. If I fail, I alone am the one who suffers through the meal with the disapproval of others.

Waste not want not. If I had made a mistake with the cooking, I say to myself, "I just have to make it through five cups of this." Such a small amount to press myself to eat. One thing I learned from my mother is, Not to waste food. Leftovers should never spoil. There has been days when I cringe my nose and eat it anyway. Waste not. Not in this house and not at my table.

My daughter came to visit the other day and laughed at my little crock pot. I smiled at her laughter as she marveled at its size. Lunch time came and I ladled out a portion of sauerkraut and sausages onto a plate for her. Her eyes lit up with appreciation when the salty goodness danced across her tongue. She ate with vigor and I laughed at her disappointment when there wasn't seconds for her to indulge in. I smiled and said, "Little crock pot is all I need." I shared my lunch with my daughter instead of keeping for myself.

The Superbowl came and little crock pot came to the rescue again. Velveeta cheese, salsa and sausage were laid to cook in the little crock pot. I smiled as my guest ladled the cheese over their chips all hot and tasty. My big crock pot held large amounts of chili to fill their bowls. This time, my daughter smiled at the little crock pot with appreciation rather than ridicule. Everything in my kitchen has a purpose and little crock pot has become an important piece to my cooking adventures.

Little Crock pot is a little pan of love. It may not be very big at all but love flows from it and fills my alone days with happiness. Warm happy hugs flow from its insides and fills my insides with love. I smile and say to it, "I love you too. You little thing."

One thing I find odd, Little crock pot was in my mother's kitchen. It was still in the box, unopened. I often wondered why mom would have bought it. She always made large meals. She always had enough if an unexpected guest came for supper. I can't imagine why she would have spent money on such an item. Perhaps she received it as a gift. Maybe she hoped to have a day or two where she only had to cook for herself. I am just thankful that I rescued little crock from the estate sale. Such an odd item for her to have.

I am only one of eleven Chingwa children in this world. Mom, fed us well enough for all of us to grow to adulthood. One thing I do know, not many of us cook like mom did. We all love to experiment with food where is mom didn't have the freedom to do with the means provided from the farm. My brother became a pastry chef. Another brother, the butcher, loves to grill wonderful steaks. While another brother smokes a mean brisket. My other siblings have their own "special" dishes they make and bring to our gatherings. I have to say, none of the Chingwa children cook blandly at all. And we all look like we enjoy what we eat. (smile)

Thank you for reading my silliness. The little crock pot may look silly but it is just right for me. My life, finally is just right for me and that makes me happy. Happiness in the smallest silliest things is what makes life good.