COLUMN: Instapot

When it comes to cooking, I've never been especially trendy.

This is probably because frozen pizzas and TV dinners have never been much of a trend. My culinary know-how usually ends with the words "Peel back plastic wrap. Stir contents. Continue microwaving on high for an additional 2 minutes. Sauce will thicken upon standing."

[Note to all bands out there: "Sauce Will Thicken Upon Standing" would make an excellent album title.]

But over the past few years, I've been trying to become a little more adept at cooking. So far, so good. Okay, sure, there was the time a few months ago when I attempted to glaze a ham steak and somehow ended up making rock candy with a delicious ham center, but pobody's nerfect. I'm proud of my recent kitchen accomplishments. Just last week, I went to a party and brought brownies that I made from scratch -- and no one has died that I'm aware of.

And now, I've officially joined the ranks of trendy foodies. When one doesn't give one's parents a list of things one wants for Christmas, one runs the risk of getting an out-of-left-field gift. And this year, it happened.

Thanks to the magic of Christmas, I am Shane: Instant Pot user.

No, I'm not talking about the stuff you have to wait in line for an hour at a certain dispensary in Milan to procure. I'm talking about the trendiest, fastest, most terrifying of modern kitchen appliances: the Instant Pot pressure cooker. Not since the advent of microwave ovens have I seen people THIS excited to lose kitchen counter space. 

Instant Pots offer all the magic of convenient cooking, just with the added potential thrill of searing all the skin off your body. How many times have you been in the kitchen and thought to yourself, "You know what? Cooking is fun -- but is there was a way to make it more dangerous?" Thanks, Instant Pot, for bringing excitement back to the kitchen.

Okay, I'm kidding. (Translation: Dear Instant Pot Co., please don't sue me. K thanx byee.) When used properly, Instant Pots don't explode. At least mine hasn't yet.

When they first came out, I kinda wanted one just to see what the fuss was about. Then I got on Facebook one day and was sent a meme purporting to show some poor woman whose face was half melted off, claiming it all happened when her Instant Pot covered her in white-hot vegetable soup -- finally proving my long-standing belief that vegetables are hazardous to one's health.

Was the meme a fake? Probably. Instant Pots have a really good safety rating and come with a slew of so-it-won't-explode mechanisms. While there have been a few reported accidents, most can be attributed to human error. But that's why I'm scared -- if there's anyone on Earth capable of human error, it's yours truly. I once broke my foot walking down a perfectly flat sidewalk. If there's a way to scald all my skin off with one of these bad boys, I'll probably be the one to figure out how.

All fear aside, you've got to respect anything that can cook a whole chicken in eight minutes flat. Just don't ask me how it works, because I haven't the slightest idea. My guess is its the science of pressurized heat, or it might just be voodoo magic. Basically, you just throw your food in there, add the appropriate amount of liquid, and seal it tight.

I was all excited, thinking it would make some hellacious noise while it pressurizes your food to oblivion. Nope. Other than the pleasant little beeps when it starts and stops, you can barely tell the thing's on. But inside that sealed pot, all heck's breaking loose. Your liquid's turning to steam that can't escape. This raises the pressure inside the pot and literally attacks your food with unrelenting steam heat energy, cooking it WAY faster than a conventional oven or crock pot. 

The terror comes at the end. Once you've cooked your food, you need to release all that pressure and steam. One option is a natural release, where you basically just stand around hungry for twenty minutes while the pot slowly depressurizes. But that's a good way to turn rice and pasta into mush. That's when you need to do a quick release. It's easy. Just pace around the kitchen for a minute, let the fear wash over you, find the absolute longest spoon you have, cower as far away as you can possibly reach, say a quick prayer, and bump the vent switch with the spoon as steam flies into the heavens and hopefully not into your face.

Honestly, it's been great. My freezer now has enough beef stew to feed an army. My tuscan chicken turned out a little goopy, but still super tasty. The other day, I made chicken adobo and it might just be my greatest culinary triumph yet. Truth be told, I have no idea what chicken adobo is. I found it on a website. It looked brown, and brown's often tasty. Plus it looked easy, and it was. A little vinegar, a little soy, a little sugar, onion, garlic, bay leaves, and FOUR minutes later dinner was ready. It was adoboriffic.

So my kitchen adventures carry on, until I suffer a human error or discover the maximum toxicity level of beef stew intake. Maybe one day I'll get bored with it all, in which case I'll work on my next great invention: a refrigerator that chills your food in eighteen seconds flat, unless you open the doors in the wrong order, in which case there's a 1-in-25 chance ice wolves will jump out and bite off your nipples. 

After all, cooking should be exciting.

[Note: If I should die in an Instant Pot explosion after this column prints, please do not let Alanis Morrissette turn this column into a song about irony. K thanx byee.]