I'm having issues with my crockpot.
That isn't some new fangled term for something sexual like the title of this post would imply. I'm actually having issues with my crockpot.
See, last week I put some chicken breasts in my crockpot, mixed it with some cream of chicken soup and come cheddar cheese soup, and ended up with something yummy and wonderful. We served it over rice and everyone was happy, well fed, and I declared the crockpot the champion of the day!
So, you'll understand why I decided to put something crockpot and chicken-y on the menu for this week.
I had dreams, ideas if you will, of another great meal of chicken and rice - visions of my children sitting properly at the table praising the meal in between asking for seconds and thirds.
It was a nice dream.
Because what I ended up with was something completely different.
In an attempt to be just slightly creative and not serve the same thing again I decided to mix this week's chicken breasts with cream of chicken soup and BBQ sauce.
Sinful. Saucy. Perfect for a November day that feels slightly like Indian Summer.
What I got instead was just wrong...
And feet.
My house smells like burnt chicken vagina and feet.
I lit one of my pear candles in an attempt to sweeten the smell just slightly, but even after burning it's little wick out for hours my house still smells of crockpot chicken gone bad.
Maybe if I liked my food charred or enjoyed vaginas it might not seem so bad. But, I'm not a well done girl. And, I'm not a "well-done" girl, if you know what I mean.
So, now I'm left with a crockpot full of two pounds of chicken that smells like burnt female anatomy.
And feet.
Feet that have been inside shoes all Indian freakin' Summer with no socks.
It's bad. Very, very bad.
Unless you're a lesbian or have a foot fetish...
Then come on over. I've got tons of chicken for you!
Would it be too Redd Foxx of me to just put the crockpot on the front porch until Hubby gets home and can dispose of this whole debacle?
Maybe just a little.
