It’s 3 a.m. when I hear a loud thud downstairs. I gently, respectfully, tenderly, shove my husband out of bed to go check. Could it be a fire? Or, God forbid, a burglar?
My husband only curses at me once as he bravely heads down the stairs. After a moment I hear the squeak of shoes on hardwood, the shuffle of a struggle, and the shatter of glass.
I tiptoe downstairs quietly, and there, in my kitchen, are two masked burglars. My husband is on the floor, tied and gagged.
I scream. The shattered glass was from my Vitamix being knocked over! Don’t they know how smooth that makes smoothies?
The burglars spot me and tell me not to move.
I hear my children stir upstairs – young Adam, 6, and Amy, only 4.
My heart sinks… the warranty on that Vitamix expired a year ago… no way they’ll replace it now.
Once my whole family is tied up, the burglars begin their search for precious items in our home.
I try to direct them towards the dining room, which is littered with knick knacks my mother-in-law gave me.
They don’t take the bait.
Then the unthinkable happens. My precious Adam, my firstborn, the apple of my eye, the twinkle in my stars, eyeballs the lower drawer in the kitchen like a fucking narc.
The burglars notice and open it.
I shut my eyes and tears stream down my face. I hear them “Whoop!” and “Hell yeah!” at the glorious treasures within.
Cuisinarts, my Williams-Sonoma garlic press, a vegetable noodler… the burglars grow quiet upon seeing it, and my worst fear is realized.
My Instant Pot.
It makes rice.
It pressure cooks.
It can make a whole roast in under thirty minutes.
I can make pulled pork if I want. I always want.
And now they have it.
I cry out in agony, pushing little Amy towards them. “Take her! She can pick locks and she’s barely annoying!” I lie.
The burglars laugh as they pack up the Instant Pot.
I nudge Adam towards them, “Please! He’s kinda smart!” I fib.
“Where’s the little menu that comes with it?” they demand.
“I’LL TAKE IT TO MY GRAVE!” I spit back.
The sound of sirens is heard in the distance.
The burglars rush out to their getaway car.
I run after them, limping and inconsolable. “Don’t let the inner pot get burnt! And don’t scrub it with steel wool!!!” I fall to my knees.
My husband and children come out and sink down next to me.
“Let it soak,” I sob. “Let it soak…”
