It wasn’t love at first sight. It wasn’t even like at first sight. She sat in my pantry and metaphorically flipped me off every time I glanced her way. Mind you, I might have lifted the birdie finger first but does that really matter?

No. I say no.

She snickered at me as I slaved away and made meals for my family that took hours. I heard her snarky laughter so I turned her on her head and put her next to the heinous duck tea kettle that I kept meaning to give away. (If anyone likes purple and yellow ducks, let me know.)

To me a crockpot felt like a minivan. Failure. I would be buying into the middle-ish aged mom mentality if I used a crock pot. I’d be admitting I wear sweat pants (or give up on life pants as my daughter calls them). I’d be caving into the soccer/dance/lacrosse mom label. I’d be old.

Wait. The. Frack. A. Minute…

I am a soccer/dance/lacrosse mom. I DO wear give up on life pants—proudly. I am old-ish. However, I will never drive a minivan. But if the shoe fits…

The fateful day dawned bright and sunny. A cool, billowy, fragrant, mystical, crisp, slightly chilly but not too bad for March breeze blew in from outside. I was wearing a sexy strapless sundress and four inch high Prada wedges. My make up was flawless and my hair flowed to my taut ass and touched the tops of my perfectly shaved legs with not one bandaid on them…

Wait. That’s utter bullshit. My bad.

It was raining. I was on a massive deadline for a book (as usual). I had on no make up and was wearing the give up on life pants that I’d slept in. My hair was a masterpiece from hell and my retainer was in my mouth. The truth will set you free or paint a nightmare inducing picture of reality. Whatever.

Anyhoo, I realized in a panic that my family eats food and there was very little of that in the house. If I went to the grocery store I could get food, but there would be no time to cook the damn stuff due to my other job as a taxi driver for my kids. Plus it was Senior Citizens Day at my grocery and I had a tattoo on my head that read “I will help everyone over 75 that can’t reach something even though I’m 5’2”.”


 I wasn’t going to do takeout again. We’d already done it several times that week and I was a freakin’ supermom. My mom worked full time, had four kids and cooked every dang night. What in the hell was my problem??? I was making dinner if it killed me.

And then she spoke.

“Robyn, you sloppy piece of crap, I could help you out if you would get over your disheveled self and take me out of the box,” a muffled feminine voice called out from the pantry.

“Who said that?” I yelled as I grabbed a butter knife and dropped into a low attack position.

“It’s me, you assduckle,” she shouted.

“Who’s me and what the hell is an assduckle?” I demanded warily.

“It’s me. Tina Turner. And an assduckle is a person who has an Anatidae tea kettle.”

What in the hell was Tina Turner doing in my pantry?  And why was she speaking French?

“I call bullshit,” I shot back.

She didn’t sound anything like Tina Turner or even Angela Basset.

“I’m your crockpot. I can make your life wonderful and oh so easy,” she promised.

I’d heard that one before on too many infomercials to count. The top shelf of my pantry was a testament to that horse crap.

“You make stuff that looks like throw up,” I snapped as I flicked on the pantry light and narrowed my eyes at her.

“Ohhhhh nonononono,” she disagreed with a giggle. “You just need the right recipe.”

I was silent as I pondered what she said. It was also unsettling to hear a kitchen appliance giggle. Was she correct? Had I avoided her assistance because I thought all she could produce was a gelatinous looking pile of inedible poo made with Cream of Whatever soup?

“Do you have recipes?” I asked.

“Do you have a freakin’ computer?” she countered.

“I’m a writer, you buttsuckbrain. Of course I have a computer.”

“Then if you can actually read, you can find recipes.”

Ignoring her slam at my comprehension abilities, I grabbed Sally (my computer) and I got busy.

Tina Turner was correct. I was overwhelmed with the possibilities. Holy Hell on a stripper pole, maybe I’d been wrong all these years.

Only one way to find out.

I am now the crockpot freakin’ Goddess. This is a good thing and my family thinks I’m Betty Crocker on steroids.

Works for me.

Tina Turner and I are cautiously dating. Hot Hubby is fine with this since she’s a crockpot and he hasn’t had to go for takeout in a week.

She still flips me off and the oatmeal she made verged on vomitous, but we’re determined to give it a go. 

Annnnnndddddd in a shameless and not at all covert plug…the book I have to thank for my new ceramic gal pal is A WITCH IN TIME!!!! It was the hellacious deadline on that baby that led me to my new life as a crockpot user—or crockpot pusher as some have accused.

And if you’d like to read a pee in your pants funny book while eating a delicious non-pukey looking crockpot meal, pre-order your copy TODAY.

Tina said it was hilarious—and Tina knows funny.

xoxo Robyn 


Here’s the link to get the book. Tina had to wear Depends while reading!!!