recipe

The Retirement of a Workhorse: A Eulogy in Carnitas

The spices were piled on the pork butt with the jalapenos on top.

Sunday’s lunch was a milestone. Our youngest grandchild was dedicated at church—and while she is currently our only grandchild, we speak of her in terms that suggest a full basketball team is waiting on the bench for the coach to send them in. My daughter and son-in-law were surrounded by family, and the day felt appropriately momentous.

My wife had volunteered to host the meal, and we eventually settled on our signature carnitas. It’s a “start it the night before” kind of meal, which is much kinder to the nerves than trying to crank out chicken on a grill after church. I even snapped a photo of the full crockpot for the family cookbook I’m assembling, blissfully unaware it would be the machine’s final portrait.

The Last Supper (Lunch really, but “supper” sounds more foreboding)

The meal was a triumph. Eleven of us (counting the guest of honor) kept the conversation lively while a significant portion of the carnitas disappeared.

The Great Escape

As the party wound down and the cleanup began, the grace extended to our seasoned crockpot was forgotten. The front panel sticker—the one that actually tells you what the buttons do—finally gave up the ghost and peeled off.

But the real issue wasn’t aesthetic. My wife discovered a pool of carnitas broth on the floor when we got up in the morning. This pork shoulder had more fat than usual, and as it rendered overnight, the broth level rose. The lid no longer sealed tight against the pot. Once the liquid peaked past the dome, the leak allowed the brothy contents to escape.

To the Picnic in the Sky

This crockpot had served us for at least sixteen years. We brought it from Ohio. It outlasted its predecessor, which met its end when I dropped a frozen pork loin into it and cracked the crock clean in two.

Fate—or perhaps a premonition—had intervened a week earlier when we spotted a deal on a slightly larger model at Sam’s Club. With a successor already waiting in the wings, we sent the old crockpot to that great church picnic in the sky.

No gold watch. Just gratitude for sixteen years of carnitas.

Hockey Boy Broth

When we moved to Oklahoma to be near our soon‑to‑arrive granddaughter, we bought a house with space for a backyard hot tub. A few months later: hot tub, pergola, grill, generator — the full “we can survive anything but a direct tornado hit” package. Part of the deal was that my wife would handle the chemicals. This was a great plan until it wasn’t.

Somewhere between the third and fifteenth water test at the pool store, I became the reluctant caretaker of the tub. Over time, I learned enough to keep the water clear and the employees from greeting me by name. I even became a semi‑competent “hot‑tub whisperer,” spraying filters, checking levels, and pretending I knew what alkalinity actually meant. My wife and I enjoyed the tub a few nights a week, letting the jets work on our aging joints. The jets are its whole personality.

Then the hockey boys arrived.

They live with us during the season — not our kids, but “our kids” for those months — and they discovered the hot tub like explorers stumbling upon a natural spring. They didn’t use it constantly, but when they did, they treated it like a giant, silent crockpot. No jets. No circulation. Just two teenage athletes sitting motionless in 104‑degree water, marinating like slow‑cooking briskets.

I tried to explain — gently at first, then with the passion of a man who has seen too many water‑testing printouts — that the jets are not optional. The jets keep the nasties moving. The jets are the sanitation system. The jets are the difference between “spa” and “soup.”

They nodded politely and continued soaking in contemplative silence, scrolling through hockey reels, texting, singing, or simply existing in the tub like two large dumplings. If I’m lucky, I might get thirty seconds of jet activity before they settle back into their preferred mode: simmer.

And that’s when it hit me. Chicken broth. Beef broth. Vegetable broth—all available at Walmart. Human broth? Not on the shelves for a reason. Yet here I am, steward of the simmering teenage stock, responsible for skimming the surface and restoring balance to the backyard cauldron.

Still, as much as I complain — and as much as my wife wishes I’d complain less — I’m glad they’re here. Their presence breaks up the quiet, gives the house a pulse, and reminds us that life is more than routines and chemical levels. I’d rather manage the broth from the hockey boys who live with us for the season than from strangers we don’t love.

So I sigh. Then I smile. Then I go check the chlorine.

Toast, Utensils, and Marital Diplomacy: A Slice of Life

Let’s be honest: the kitchen is not just where we prepare food—it’s where domestic philosophy is forged, sometimes on the blade of a butter knife. In my household, we follow a sacred code: “Help the dishwasher out as much as you can.” It’s a noble creed—one that my wife and I mostly share, with a tiny, chocolate-hazelnut exception.

Toast: The Great Equalizer (Almost)

Both of us are toast fans. (We even had a toast song, but that’s a story for another day—and possibly another genre.) While my heart belongs to a bagel with peanut butter, toast comes in at a very respectable second. My wife? She’s all in on toast, topped with Nutella. Frankly, you can’t go wrong with either.

The Knife Dilemma: Peanut Butter vs. Nutella Protocol

Here’s where the marital kitchen harmony wobbles: the post-spread knife ritual.

  • My method: I lick both sides of the knife clean. Some might call it overkill; I call it preventive maintenance. That knife comes out of the dishwasher so clean, it could double as a dental mirror.
  • My wife’s method: She wipes the knife clean on her toast. Efficient, elegant, but perhaps a smidge too trusting of the dishwasher’s powers.

The Empty-Nester’s Dilemma

Back when the house was full of kids, the dishwasher ran daily, and any rogue Nutella or peanut butter never stood a chance. Now, with fewer meals and fewer cycles, any residue has time to harden into something the dishwasher considers “character-building.”

My Heroic Intervention

This morning, as the Nutella knife was headed for the dishwasher, I sprang into action—tongue first. I gave that knife a pre-wash so thorough, the dishwasher sighed in relief.

Let it be known: if the dishwasher fails to deliver, it’s not for my lack of effort. Some people talk about making sacrifices for their marriage. Me? I just lick the knife.

In summary: Marriage is about compromise, teamwork, and occasionally, making sure your appliances don’t face impossible odds. And if you ever need someone to clean up after toast, you know who to call.