Today I toodled away the hours (when I wasn't obsessing and hand-wringing over Project Runway--fucking bastards on the East Coast are watching NOW) at work dreaming about the chili I had in the crock pot here at home.
It was going to be so spicy, with big chunks of tomato, and covered in cheese. I even planned what bowl I was going to eat it out of.
I got home and I didn't smell chili.
I admit, I had J all trussed up and ready to hang for being a No Good Rotten Crock Pot Non-Plugging Inner but no. Fucking crock pot is broken. Ice cold chili just sitting there uncooked on my counter.
I took the news stoically (if you discount the weeping) except for the very whiney phone message I left for J (sorry babe!). And raged in the shower. About cheaply made appliances that haven't been used that much and how I don't actually have anything else in the house for dinner and even if I did I didn't want THAT I wanted chili and OH MY GOD I COULD DIE.
But. I am a grown and mature woman. Who realized that her crock pot container is well insulated and that meant that the chili had been practically refridgerated for those hours. And could be modified and made on the stove.
Seriously, am a fucking trooper.
I need a new crockpot.