That does it ...

... I am buying a new crockpot.  Or so I told myself this past Saturday, right after court, not one minute later.  A smaller one, about 4 quarts.  I was down to one crockpot for the first time in many years.  Old Faithful died the other day.  I know, I didn't mention it.  But he was almost 40 years old, which in crockpot years is about 280 ... or is that dogs?  Anyway, I was heading out for weekend court (don't ask because I can't tell) and on the way back I stopped at a really cheesy Walmart for a new crockpot ...

... and now I am the proud owner of a brand-new, 4 quart crockpot to replace Old Faithful.  I am also resolved never to go back to the particular Walmart.

Very sleek, right?  All black, very classy like a good cocktail dress, and most importantly, a removable stoneware crock.  And cheap, did I mention cheap?  I think I paid more for it the first time, in 1975.  So now I can go ahead and cook that cute little spaghetti squash, but before that, I am going to bake an eggplant.  In the crockpot.  Forget the parm (I am utterly opposed to frying anything), this eggplant is going to get the Brooklyn Jewish treatment.  This is the eggplant dish for which my Uncle Red would take a bus, the subway, the Long Island Railroad, and a taxi.  Apparently he could sniff when my grandmother had a batch ready.  Since he lived in Brooklyn and we lived in the Five Towns on Long Island, believing that might take a leap of faith, at least until you got a good look at his nose. Trust me, he could smell that eggplant dish.

Until next time ...