By Esther C. Baird. First published in the Tri Town Transcript, Apr 6, 2018
Here’s the thing, products that claim they will change your life rarely do. I have a cabinet full of things that have not changed my life. I’m still making lunches and shoveling snow and picking up dog poop, right? Also, I don’t care for food fads. You may recall when I attempted the Whole 30 food plan — I got a Whole Lotta Nothing. Mostly it’s because I don’t follow rules that make no sense (to me). Food plans have many such rules like “no sugar,” or, “no Friday afternoon cocktail,” or “no coffee.” Those rules are dumb and I can’t follow them.
But what happens when there is a thing that is a food plan item, life changing, and full of rules that might actually matter? Regular Readers, I refer to the InstaPot.
“It will change your life!” my friend swore as she bought one two Christmases ago.
Another friends posted, “Spaghetti Squash in my InstaPot — LIFE CHANGING!”
“Hard boiled eggs that peel themselves, my life is forever changed,” exclaimed another.
But I like my life as is, that is to say, alive. InstaPots seem like their agenda might diverge from my preference with respect to the alive bit.
’Well, you know my mom did put a hole in her ceiling using a pressure cooker.” My dad confirmed over the phone one day.
My mom agreed. “Oh, I’m pretty sure my mother did too! She was making chicken and rice.” I imagined bodily injuries from exploding chicken and rice. “Was she hurt??”
My dad gave the scientific answer. “Actually the pressure was so high that it shot straight up past her, right up through the ceiling.”
Chicken and rice, weaponized to blow a chunk out of the ceiling. “I mean that would change my life,” I mused.
So, when for my recent birthday, my excited 11-year-old daughter gave me an InstaPot, I smiled while discreetly looking around my kitchen. Were these the last days I’d see my house still standing?
The pot had so many buttons. Each one probably mattered… a lot. I’d have to read the manual and all the rules. I wasn’t sure that was in me. But then I looked at my daughter who was beaming and expected greatness.
Sighing, I picked up the manual and read out loud all the steps from the pre-clean, (see that’s annoying, washing a perfectly brand new utensil? Why? Who cares? Who follows that step?) to identifying which was the pressure valve and which was the steam vent. Then I went ahead and made my recipe, locked the lid, and pushed the manual pressure button for 10 minutes.
I made the girls leave the kitchen, and warned my husband that standing in our bedroom, just above us, was probably not a good idea.
Nothing happened.
I panicked. “Why is nothing happening!?!? It says ON but it’s only supposed to take 10 minutes and it’s been at least five and nothing is changing!?”
I covered my face, snuck into the kitchen, ducked around the pot, and slouched over my computer to asked the internet what on earth was going on. There I learned about getting things up to pressure verses cooking under pressure. Just then pot beeped and the screen began the 10 minute countdown.
We all waited. Ten minutes is a long time when you aren’t sure how your life is about to change.
When the timer went off I had choice to make: let the pot release naturally (which could take another 10-20 minutes, not very instant if you ask me) or quick release. This was the step when my grandmothers had collectively blown dinner onto the roof. So I ducked down and simultaneously pushed the steam valve open with a spatula, while throwing a towel over the pot and then hiding my face in my hands.
Psssssss. There was a light hiss.
Cautiously I pulled the towel off the pot. Sure enough it was venting steam, but not a ceiling crushing amount. I exhaled, and when the pot beeped again I deduced, all by myself, that it was ready to unlock.
I opened the pot and smiled to my family. “I did it!! I didn’t blow anyone up and look what I did,” I waved towards my pot and announced proudly. “I boiled two cups of water in 20 minutes!”
Life changing.