I’ve been involved in a strenuous relationship over the past couple of years. In part, because it started under false pretences. I’ve tried to have an open mind but every time I go back in, my disappointed is reaffirmed. It’s not like the other party can change. It’s just an Instant Pot.
Instant Pots came onto the scene was somewhere between the George Foreman grill and the Air Fryer, sending time-strapped, kitchen-enslaved parents ran to Target like dinner depended on it. Not since Cabbage Patch Kids and Nintendo has this generation moved so fast. Always eager to reach culinary salvation, I joined the mad rush.
I began researching recipes to find out what this new-aged wonder could achieve. A roast chicken in under half an hour? Hard-boiled eggs in four minutes? Rice in five? I started imaging all the things I would do with this new lease on life now that I wouldn’t need to start dinner until 5:47pm.
There was a romantic notion that I might spend time with my children. I could finally say yes to their demands for pre-dinner science experiments, painting projects or family drama games instead of responding with my usual, “I can’t. I’m making dinner.” I’m quite certain I’m raising them to believe food preparation is akin to enslavement. Future take-out delivery boys and boxed-meal services have me to thank.
The Instant Pot was going to change it all.
The first few attempts didn’t go so well. That 30-minute chicken took closer to an hour and a half. You sear it, turn it to manual, set the time, and wait. And wait. And keeeeep waiting. Eventually, the thing will alert you that it has finally pressurized and only THEN will that half-hour start counting down.
But don’t be fooled! Just because the timer is up it doesn’t mean the food is done. You also have to wait for it to DE-pressurize. And I don’t know what kind of spray paint those people are using on Pinterest but my chicken did not come out ready to rival Swiss Chalet. It was dry AF, had a pallor reminiscent of tofu, and skin best described as grey goop.
I tried pork. It was worse. It came out looking like a prop they might have used on Aliens. My father-in-law suggested it needed more time. I thought, if this thing goes back in there for one minute longer, we’ll be using it as a soccer ball come spring.
Pressure cooking didn’t work, but this thing has six other functions, so I thought maybe those were the ticket. Yoghurt worked brilliantly the first time. The next five attempts resulted in chunky milk soup. The slow cooker function cooked the shit out of dinner, apparently the only function on the machine that prompts it to cook quickly. Rice took longer than our $15 rice cooker, with the added bonus of it being charred to the bottom of the pot.
I was mad. Instant, my ass. I shoved it deep into the corner cupboard, the abyss of wasted space where all things kitchen go to be forgotten.
Its recent resurrection still baffles me. It was, of all things, a spaghetti squash that prompted renewed hope. I’ve had similar issues with spaghetti squash as I have with the Instant Pot (my children were not fooled, it does not taste like spaghetti), so it’s apropos that, together, they brought about mutual salvation. I was hungry. I had a squash. I also had machine that could cook it. Sounds like a win-win to me.
The key was reframing. There is nothing instant happening here. Maybe the company thought we’d all be so preoccupied with all the other goings on that we wouldn’t notice how long it was taking, leaving us pleasantly surprised when dinner was miraculously ready, barely a finger lifted. I would also hesitate to describe anything emerging from its hold as gourmet, but is that what any of us are really shooting for in-between school and swimming lessons? I think not.
The most surprising discovery was steel cut oats. Easy enough to cook on the stove but way easier to throw everything into the pot when you first wake up, press some buttons and come back down half an hour later to find breakfast ready. A little gift of ease on a weekday morning.
I even sacrificed another chicken, this time with a more palatable time calculation. If you can get over the fact that it looks like death on exit, it still puts out serviceable bird that can be doused in sauce for pulled chicken sandwiches or hidden in cheese for quesadillas. You may even have time to sit down while it was cooking, read a book with your kids or help with Lego/math/piano/whatever.
In any case, it cooks food so I don’t have to and, for that, it got a new spot at front of the cupboard. We’re still a long ways from Pinterest, but at least there’s food on the table.