The warm bubbles pop along my skin as the cold wine caresses me from inside. I try to stretch out in the tub, but my pale toes hit the ebony of the crock from my slow cooker. Using my foot I carefully slide the crock towards my upper body, enjoying the slick smoothness of the wet non-stick against my inner thigh before picking it up. I cradle it in my arms, pour a bit of wine into it, and resume my relaxation. It’s amazing how I can just sit here with it and we don’t have to talk. There’s no tension or fighting like there is with my husband; no tears or hurtful words or threats of leaving and begging to stay. Just warm, loving, accepting silence. Kissing the lip of the crock first, I wipe the bubbles from it. We’ve finished our wine and need to get out of the bath. I use my toe to pull the stopper and wink at my crock. Imagine what else these toes could do. Grabbing the smaller of the matching white fluffy towels on the sink edge, I dry the crock and then use the bigger one on myself. After getting into my pajamas, we walk to the kitchen.
Sliding a liner into the crock and making sure it fits just right reminds me of putting a condom on a lover. I gently smooth air pockets and pull the liner down over the rim, ensuring a snug and safe fit while being sure not to nick or scratch the finish. I wonder if I could do it with my mouth like I see the vixens on television do. I load the cooker with scrambled eggs and bread chunks, some spices and other small things to fill out a breakfast casserole. I love the feel of the buttons caving in under my fingertips, like the cooker is submitting to my will; there’s enough resistance that it isn’t too easy, he’s no pushover, but he cares enough to do what I demand. With the lid locked into place I turn out the lights and start to head to bed, pausing long enough to look back at the soft red glow of the digital read-out. Sighing, I walk down the hallway towards the bedroom, turning out the blazing lights as I go.
The sheets are cold and my already snoring husband has stolen most of the blankets. I can either snuggle up to him for body heat and covers or freeze. I get up and retrieve an extra blanket from the closet. Wrapping myself in a cocoon of cotton, I quickly dream that I am inside my slow cooker, being gently warmed and loved from all sides.
The bed is empty when I wake up. There’s a seductive scent of cinnamon and cooked bread in the air, drawing me out of the sheets and down the hall. My love is sitting stoically on the counter, keeping my breakfast warm and waiting for me. I empty the contents of the liner into two Tupperware and leave them on the counter to cool. Excitedly I skip-run down the hall, make the bed, get dressed for work and brush my teeth.
When I get back to the kitchen one of the containers is missing and the house feels empty. A chill goes down my back. I remove the soiled liner from the slow cooker and throw it away. They’re only good for one use. I give the inner crock a quick wipe with a paper towel, removing condensation and any food debris that may have found its way through the liner. No protection is 100%. I fit another liner into the cooker and fill it with chopped meat, onions, beans, and other chili-makings. I lock the lid on and set the time and temperature again. I grab my purse and put a lid on the breakfast casserole container. In an effort to extend the peace I feel with my crock pot, I take the casserole to work.
I eat the still steamy casserole at my desk. It creates a ball of warmth and contentment that starts in my stomach, then slowly expands to encompass my whole body. I clench my thighs together and grind my pelvis into the chair a bit in an effort to suppress my desire. The work day trudges by as I fantasize about the dinner waiting for me at home. I try to imagine exactly what the slow cooker looks and feels like. It’d be hot to the touch, maybe with drops of water rolling down the lid. I imagine those drops rolling down my chest, the rubber seal of the glass lid stuttering across my skin, the hard plastic handle pressing into me. My co-workers deep and needy voice snatches me from my imaginings. He wants me to answer e-mails and set up meetings with clients and return phone calls and make charts and reports and analysis and on and on and on. Since technically that’s what I am getting paid for, I swing back to the computer and get to it without saying a word. He stares at me for a minute before walking away but my head is already filled with numbers and soul-melting chili goodness, I don’t have brain space to analyze him and the data.
When I get home, just like this morning, the house feels empty but the slow cooker is full. There’s still steam rising from the vent in the lid, and I lean over it and inhale. The steam warms me, opens me and wets me by leaving slight dew on my skin, while the heavy scent of beef and tomato fill me up. As I straighten and start looking for a spoon and bowl a piece of paper magneted onto the freezer catches my eye.
My husband has moved out.
Panic hits me as I realize there may not be any bowls left to eat from. All of our dishes were gifts from his mother when we got married seven years ago. The slow cooker was a gift from mine. My heart re-enters my chest when the opened cabinet door reveals plenty of clean bowls and plates and cups for the choosing. I scoop the chili into a bowl, grab my crackers and walk to the table. At least now I don’t have to share.
Maybe I should invest in another slow-cooker. A smaller one, maybe portable for the desk at work. A warm ball of desire starts in my abdomen and quickly encompasses my whole body.
Jackie is a recent UNF graduate and a newlywed. She has three cats and a dog who are required to watch Animal Cops so they will appreciate their lives. She is counted on in her social circles to catch all double entendres and sexual innuendos, intended or not
–Art by Rona Keller
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