Crock Pots Are Our Friends

Oct 12, 2005Archive

The Crock Pot Hunter Delivers!

So I got a call from someone I’ll call Patrick (OK, it was Patrick). He described a real-live crock pot to me. Truly! In France! At Galleries LaFayette!

When he came home, he said there was a little something for me downstairs. A silver crock pot greeted me. The conversation went something like this:

“I’ve been hankering for you,” I said.

“I know,” Breville the Silver Crock pot said, turning up the heat (to low, no, wait, medium!)

“But you’ve been so elusive, so hard to find.”

“That’s the way of us crock pots, ma cherie. We’re a sly bunch. Only a chosen few find us.”

“Like my husband?”

“Yes, like him. He’s a shrewd hunter, that man.”


“Yes. I’d been hiding behind a dusty shelf. You see, those French women don’t know what to make of me (or make with me), so I languish. I stay furtive, out of the way. But today your hunter of a husband tracked me, rattled my box, lifted my lid. It was quite an experience, I tell you.”

“I can imagine. But now we are together. At last. And with a 220-volt plug, no less.”

“You say the most electrifying things,” Breville said, smiling the way only an imported crockpot can. “I can see we’ll have a simmering relationship.”


And we will, starting tomorrow.

Thank you, Patrick, my stealthy Crock Pot Hunter!