Last weekend, when we were tidying up the garage, we found this extra Crock Pot, still in the box. I don’t mind having an extra stashed away, in case the original one conks out mid-stew. That’s fine, because our daughter has declared she’s too young to own a Crock Pot. (She has no problem owning a Kitchen Aid stand mixer, I notice. I didn’t get mine until I was 50-something.) Anyway, the point of this photo is this story from when we were outfitting said daughter for college.
Because I am apparently stuck in a time warp an old-fashioned girl, I searched for — and found — a hot pot for Ginger’s dorm room. I think I found it in the Vermont Country Store catalog, known for supplying Lanz of Salzburg nightgowns and other up-to-the-minute products. No, didn’t occur to me that a small microwave might have been more appropriate.
Further, Ginger had never heard of a hot pot, and she thought it was the same as a Crock Pot. So when she and Lanier, from Franklin, Tennessee, connected by phone for the first time, she told her future roomie that she’d be bringing a butterfly chair, a mini fridge, and a Craaaak Paaat. Because that’s how Chicago people pronounce stuff like saaaaft baaaall and haaaaackey.
And that sweet Lanier, who was probably already dreading having a citified yankee Chicaaaago roommate, heard Ginger say she was bringing a crack pipe.
Thank goodness for second chances on first impressions.
ginnygram 