I woke up in the dark. I was having this weird dream that I was in a restaurant confronted by a menu
where all the choices were too caloric to consider, and suddenly I was wide awake, safe in my own bed, yet still surrounded by the unmistakable smell of onions and tomatoes and brown sugar. Barbecue.
And then I remembered: Harold had cranked up the Crock Pot.
We’d had a Crock Pot for years, a late ’70s relic with an ill-fitting lid that heroically got me through many a dinner hour during my teaching days. I hadn’t used it in a good long while, though, so in April I sent it to the Great Goodwill Beyond … which is why around May first Harold stumbled upon the wonders of Crock Pot cookery.
The epiphany occurred after a trip to Chicagoland where Harold became enthralled with Italian roast beef sandwiches. And who could blame him? Slabs of beefy goodness stewed in their own juices. It’s a carnivore’s dream. Harold ordered one for lunch every single day, and when our plane landed back in Birmingham, he set out to determine how he could make these fabulous sandwiches at home.
Every Internet source said the same thing: You need a slow cooker. Apparently, Italian roast beef cannot be rushed, so Harold rushed to the store and returned with a slow cooker so large it could feed an Italian army … slowly, of course.
Go big or go home. That’s Harold’s motto. And not entirely satisfied with his Internet recipes (what does Bobby Flay know?), our next stop was the bookstore, where he pored through a stack of cookbooks in search of the definitive Italian beef. I wandered through literary fiction, self-help and a disturbing array of bestsellers before Harold finally made his cookbook selection.
And then, it was on to the grocery store for another hour of slow-going slow cooker prep. The cookbook, it seems, with its appetizing titles and full color illustrations, had set off a round of pre-Italian beef detours. After careful deliberation at the meat counter (I sampled everything in the bakery department twice), Harold at last selected a pork roast for his maiden slow-cooked voyage, which is how I ended up with my 3 a.m. barbecue head rush.
I’m not complaining. The barbecue was indeed delicious, and I’m not just saying that so Harold doesn’t toss the tongs back in my direction. Harold bested the barbecue throwdown, and now it’s on to the slow cooker next. It could be Hot and Sour Soup. It could be Boston Baked Beans. The cookbook has 365 pages, and Harold is determined to plow through to the end.
Hurrying through the slow cooker cookbook. That’s my guy, and I’m not surprised. Slow is not usually in Harold’s repertoire. The man does not idle. He does not stroll. His dinner plate is cleared before my napkin hits my lap. The fact that he’s now comfortable chopping and slicing and not seeing the final results until 12 hours later brings a happy tear to my eye.
I just wish those slow hours didn’t coincide with my sleeping. To me, 12 hours of any smell can be overwhelming. I don’t know how people in food factories do it. In Hershey, Pa., even the air out in the street smells like chocolate, which sounds wonderful, but I suspect there are days when the townspeople run screaming into the streets yelling, “Make it stop!”
The Italian beef launch is set for this Saturday. Twelve overnight hours of garlic and oregano and Good Seasons salt. If I dream I’m playing centerfield for the Cubbies, I’ll let you know.
