Nobody Reads This Page: “Crock Potted”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(5-26)

 

 

Famously, my second wife once exclaimed with exasperation about a personal habit that seemed to irritate her with persistence. During a frank discussion of scheduling in the household, as I was working at the home-office desk, she threw back her head, and yowled a petition for more attention and less typing at my keyboard.

 

“Can’t you ever just do something, without getting a story out of it?”

 

My response was brief, and direct. I did not attempt to explain or excuse this learned behavior, especially after years of writing for newspapers and magazines.

 

“Umm, no... of course not!”

 

During those days of marital companionship, finding some sort of cooperative coexistence within the household confines was important. It kept me busy thinking ahead, and channeling personal energy into diplomatic efforts. When what I really desired was a quiet moment to peck away at my computer interface. And sneak savory treats from the cupboards, in between these sessions. Finding inspiration for a yield of publishable manuscripts was always paramount. Every deadline mattered, and my file cabinets were stuffed with research materials, manuals, and unfinished ideas. The challenge of keeping everything in line never abated. Meanwhile, this pursuit always made me hungry.

 

This race to finish writing projects never ended. Until it did, long before I had prepared myself to be stalled by fate.

 

By then, I had managed to lose many components of a stable and successful life that one might brag about. My marriage, career, and mobility all disappeared within a short span of time. Even the gentle companionship of having pets at my side was surrendered. Instead of leaving my home every day, to seek interactions and opportunities, I became more of a hermit. Days and weeks passed where I simply sat at the monitor in my back bedroom, and worked online. Eventually, even the regular ritual of shopping for groceries was negated. Each step along this path intensified my natural disposition to be a loner. Yet unleashed extra hours for wordsmithing. It was a trade-off fit for someone approaching senior years, and permanent retirement.

 

One byproduct of this paradigm shift came as a complete surprise, for myself and also members of the family. I began to embrace the hillbilly roots of our bloodline, a theme interwoven with more modernist traditions born of necessity. Because it was no longer necessary to maintain a well-groomed, corporate appearance, I let the shagginess of a mountain man take over. I quit bothering to primp and preen for public outings. My homestead reflected this relaxed approach, with moving boxes stacked here and there, amid the chaos of disability. I quit preparing regular meals, preferring to exist on more primitive, rural delights such as fried bologna sandwiches. Or sausage gravy, over biscuits. Even a pan of improvised goulash, made with whatever waited in the cabinets.

 

I found myself rejecting the artifice of fancy establishments, with their gilded accents and dazzling designs. Eventually, when the Covid lockdowns hit Ohio, I jettisoned the activity of going out, altogether. By then, my non-conformist cohort Janis, a substitute for relationship purposes, had experienced her own slide into poor health, and landed in a nursing home. It seemed best to stay rooted to my spot. Where everything I needed was accessible, and safe. Walking required the use of dual canes for support, and a fair amount of concentration accompanying each step that I took.

 

With this unexpected metamorphosis now complete, I reverted to a simple discipline of Old Appalachia. Both in spirit, and also, in the kitchen. A recent procurement of rations via my cell phone revealed that packages of smoked hog jowl were available, apparently from a southern producer. I had already included pinto beans in a previous order, and wanted some kind of salty protein to season that dish. Both went into my slow cooker with a top layer of fresh, green onions. I added enough water to cover this mix, and let it simmer on a low setting.

 

My estranged spouse would have scolded me for embracing such an unhealthy choice. Her tilt was always toward options that were free of sodium, fat, carbohydrates, gluten, and by extension, the sensation of eating something genuinely satisfying. I reckoned sometimes that she wanted us to gnaw on pieces of cardboard, while drinking filtered water, as a family. Remarks of that kind never elicited a civil response, of course.

 

“DO YOU WANT TO HAVE A HEART ATTACK, RODNEY? IT’S YOUR CHOICE, LIVE THAT WAY IF YOU DESIRE, BUT I’LL NEVER PUT THAT KIND OF TRASH ON MY DINNER PLATE! YOU’RE BETTER THAN THAT! DON’T ACT LIKE AN OLD FOOL FROM THE HILLS!”

 

I was, of course, raised by one of those refugees from mountain terrain. So her complaints never hit the target in personal terms. Though I stayed silent while contemplating cast-iron cornbread with a slather of creamy butter, or country ham with redeye gravy.

 

Now living alone, and staying perpetually busy in the office, I have become quite fond of my crockery appliance. And also, of basic recipes that allow me to assemble items quickly, before returning to my business. Standing at the stove or countertop is no longer something I take for granted. Instead, it is a matter of endurance, while battling arthritis and bad joints. Having a pungent aroma of tasty vittles cooking throughout the afternoon and evening is pleasant, and preferable to any sort of incense or air freshener.

 

It warms my heart, and comforts my nerves.

 

Snacking until this feast is ready involves raiding the household stash for dill pickles, brined eggs and sausages, candied jalapeños, sweet onions, banana peppers, or chunks of horseradish cheese. I keep a variety of goods on hand that would never have been permitted before. One that is similar to staple items found during my childhood, in our Sears & Roebuck refrigerator.

 

My journey has become a full-circle revelation. Literally, an episode of time travel, back to where things began, in southeastern Ohio. I lived in unincorporated towns that would puzzle mapmakers with their distant and isolated locations. Yet were blessed with the sort of fellowship known by pioneer folk, carving out a new civilization in the heartland.

 

As Popeye the Sailor Man used to exclaim, ‘I yam what I yam!’ No other identity would be proper for a product of blue skies and country roads.