June 2026

666(X3) ≠ 42

/ wvfurandroot / 1 Comment

The Instant Pot arrived with a blast. 

In nanoseconds, my social media feeds were filled with folks I respect singing the praises of the Instant Pot. 

Photo by Katherine Chase on Unsplash

I am no slouch in the kitchen; I own nearly every kitchen gadget in existence.  But after roughly 30 years of putting dinner on the table every evening unless I was hospitalized or had a pizza coupon, I was just over it. 

Even a viral new gadget was not enough to tempt me. 

Especially that one.

Near as I can figure, the Instant Pot is the New Millennium’s restyling of the pressure cooker my dad used for years. 

I was terrified of that thing. 

It started out innocently enough. A pot roast, some seasoning, and a few other secret ingredients were combined for a period much shorter than conventional pot roasting and turned out a plateful of wonderful.  But to get to wonderful, I had to get through the rattling brass regulator that, at a certain stage, would start screaming while the heavy pan rocked and rolled in jeopardy of falling off the stove.

My dad, an artillery expert in the United States Marine Corps, would tell us to step back using his Captain Kinsey voice when he opened the pressure cooker.

I didn’t have to be told.  Anything that made those movements and those sounds on a stovetop in suburban America circa 1971 was surely one of the demons released in William Peter Blatty’s runaway best seller, The Exorcist.

There was never a problem when my dad used the pressure cooker, aside from my stress response.  I had heard tales.  I knew facts. From where?  I have no idea.  Why or how a 12-year-old would be well-versed in pressure cooking cautions and disasters before Google is a mystery.

And so, my feed continued to be full of the awe of my friends who had received an Instant Pot for Christmas or Mother’s Day or their birthday, or because it was a doorbuster special on Black Friday.  They shared results with photos, noting the cooking time with squeals. They traded recipes they had adapted. Whole communities were formed around the appliance.

[Instagram was emerging at roughly the same time.  I kept calling it an Instapot.  I know for a fact that unintentional perversion of the appliance’s name grated on more than one person’s nerves, and she took every opportunity to correct me.]

My feed was soon almost entirely Instant Pot and Wordle brags.  (What happened to Wordle? I didn’t get into that either. I’m such a renegade.)

It was like a cult.

I stood back and tried to look interested and polite.  I was not interested. Not in the least.  I didn’t care that this incarnation of the pressure cooker could replace seven other needs: slow cooker, rice maker, Saturday night babysitter, warmer, yogurt maker, steamer, and bowling team sub. 

I still didn’t want an Instant Pot or Instapot. It was nothing but a gussied-up pressure cooker manufactured in an era marked by shoddy workmanship and planned obsolescence. 

I was afraid of the noisy monstrosity my dad used.  I didn’t even like cleaning the damn thing, it scared me so much. I’m told the Instant Pot is quiet.  That adds even more fear.  I could hear the demons in my father’s pressure cooker clattering for escape.

Terror accompanied by silence can be expressed mathematically as:

666 ( X3) ≠ 42

Silent terror destroys the ultimate meaning of life.

At every gift-giving opportunity at the zenith of its popularity, someone would get that gleam in their eye. I would say assertively, “I don’t want an Instant Pot.  I really don’t. I do appreciate the thought, but I will just return it.  Please. I’m busy, please don’t add to my to-do list.  I would prefer to receive nothing.”

So, of course, I was gifted an Instant Pot with no way to return it.  Four years ago now, I think.

It is still in the heavy brown box UPS uses for shipping.

I’m going to stack the 6-month-old unopened shipping box holding the air fryer on top of the Instant Pot box. 

I’m not afraid of the air fryer.  I might even use it someday.

[I hear tell the Ninja CREAMi is the next viral gadget all the cool kids will be clamoring about. I’m kind of interested in it, but at more than $200, it is not going to complete my trinity of unused, unopened viral kitchen toys anytime in the near future..]

Lucy’s Regal Blue Dress

/ wvfurandroot / Leave a comment
Nightlife. 1943 Archibald John Motley Jr.

Lucy Goosey pulled her worn winter coat out from the back of the closet.  Glancing around to make sure she was alone, she slid the dress out from underneath the coat.

The dress still had the tags on it.  It was a size 8, and the color was Regal Blue. It fit every part of her, requiring no alterations.

After she cut the tags off, Lucy would tuck them into her scrapbook.

 Lucy had never had clothing, other than underwear, that was storebought new with tags.

She kept the dress secret even from her mother, though it fair killed her.  She did not want the gossip and speculation to start.  She intended to surprise.

She laid the frock on her bed and spread the skirt.  The color was glorious, and Regal Blue was the perfect description.  The taffeta caught the early sun and glowed. With its full skirt and low neckline, Lucinda Marie Duval would command attention.

Lucy paid on the layaway for twelve weeks, doing without the few extras she allowed herself.  She walked to work every morning and home from secretarial school every night so she could use her bus fare against the layaway balance – the one decreasing oh so slowly. 

In celebration of her eventual achievement, the shop owner steamed the dress for free before expertly folding it to fit into the store’s signature box. 

Once home, she lifted the dress, taking care not to disturb the tissue paper stuffed into the bodice and sleeves to prevent wrinkles. Lucy set aside the pink ribbon used to bind the box shut. She would wear it with her maid’s uniform. 

She saved the pristine and sturdy white dress box.

Nothing in Lucy’s life served a single purpose. The gleaming dress would celebrate her betrothal or mark the end of a relationship stealing her youth.  The Regal Blue frock might go on to serve as her wedding dress should they decide on a Justice of the Peace, but either way, it would end up in the window of the consignment store.  The proceeds would be applied to the next semester’s tuition.

Johnny knew she, the woman he had nicknamed Lucy Goosey for her fluid dance moves, had been expecting a proposal for months. 

Johnny changed the subject if the air between them felt palpable with expectation.  He knew she was trying to find the words that would prod his.

Once she found those words, everything would change. 

A few times when her expectation niggled at his brain, he sent his younger brother with a message that he was ill and would not be able to escort her to Smitty’s as planned.

Johnny was not prepared for the Lucy who greeted him at the door.

Everyone at Smitty’s would understand as soon as she walked in arm-in-arm with Johnny. If they did walk into Smitty’s.  Moving from her doorway to Smitty’s might not happen.

The light from the floor lamp set her skin, her eyes, her hair, and the taffeta glowing.  Johnny was on the porch, but the lamp lit his face as well. 

Lucy watched his expression change and then change again. She did not need to say anything.

She was regal.

She wanted it understood she was not a supplicant. His first naked expression told Lucy he did understand.  He knew he had until he walked her home to make the decision.

The niggle had failed him this day. Surprise had been achieved.

The splendor of the dress did not overpower her in any way.  She was striking. She was tall. She was resolute.

Lucy was planning a future ablaze with certainty. She knew lots of people with promise who never found that future.

Still, her voice was soft when she said, “Shall we go now?”

Johnny held out his arm. She wrapped hers around it.

His voice as soft and gentle as hers had been, he said, “You are so lovely.”

Johnny would remember, for all of his life, the image of Lucy in the doorway.

Lucy did love Johnny.  He excited her and made her feel alive. They danced together like one body. She thought them well-suited in temperament, though she wasn’t sure his ambition matched hers.

Her future would fork left or would fork right this very evening. So would Johnny’s. The question was whether they would be arm-in-arm on the same fork.

Her mother and father had loved one another. As had his.

Though necessary, love can be not enough. Lucy understood that. Johnny suspected as much, but hadn’t allowed himself to think beyond the now.

He loved his Lucy Goosey, but he would never again call her by that name.

Now was slipping away and soon Lucy might too.

She slowed her pace to match his as he checked his watch.

Smitty’s was just around the corner.