You can quote me on that

    January marks five years of publishing Retirement Confidential. In honor of this anniversary, I suffered through pages and pages of old posts to cull some of my more cogent thoughts about life after work. I hope you enjoy the recap.

    Thank you for making it all possible. Happy New Year!

    • In large part, retirement is about making it to the finish line and doing whatever you can get away with.
    • Many retirees are probably unemployable. Not that we’re uppity, but our bullshit meters are pegged. Oh, and our inside voice is now our outside voice.
    • While big retirement goals typically require planning, preparation and commitment, in the art of the slack, it’s important to set a low bar for the routines of daily life.
    • I got my first Social Security payment this month. That was fun. While I don’t miss work, I do like to be on the receiving end of money.
    • As a childless couple, we want to spend our principal … just not all at once. I like the idea of “die broke.” However, I would like to avoid being alive and broke.
    • We add layers and layers of accommodations and behaviors to earn a living, and we start to believe that’s who we really are. Retirement is a journey toward freeing ourselves from expectations and accepting we don’t have to be more than we are.
    • One thing I’ve learned in retirement is there’s something to be said for wishful thinking. I have been on both sides of the attitude spectrum, and nothing good ever happened when I thought the glass was half-empty.
    • I woke up the other morning thinking, “I should get a job.” I used to like people. Maybe I could learn to like them again.
    • Retirement can be the opportunity to discover or re-discover who you are when nobody is watching.
    • What if we don’t need to continuously improve ourselves? Here’s a radical thought. What if being content is what it actually means to reach our full potential? What if being alive is our greatest accomplishment?
    • I’ve had weird retirement dreams lately. I’m working at my old job but wondering why there isn’t more money in my bank account. Did they forget to pay me? Then I realize I wasn’t working at all and haven’t had a job in years. I wake up happy.
    • Illness definitely affected my professional timetable. My first bout of cancer woke me up to get serious about work, and my second bout woke me up to get serious about life.
    • In the grand scheme of things, I haven’t accomplished much. I consider making enough money to retire my greatest achievement.
    • Retirement can be an unbelievable opportunity to pursue nothing – and that is everything.
    • I’m not one to document goals, accomplishments or disappointments. If I wanted to do all that, I would be working.
    • I never get sick of retirement. Even when I read the news, and it’s all horrible and depressing, I think, well, at least I get to sleep in.
    • On multiple occasions, my boss said I couldn’t take vacation. I think she just got nervous when the flock wasn’t there. When I retired, I had more than 30 days of vacation paid to me because I never got to use it. Yo, girlfriend, guess who’s on vacation now?
    • In many ways, it would have been easier to keep working. At least you get paid to avoid self-reflection.
    • Once you have enough to get by without a job, time becomes more important than money or stuff.
    • Waking up without an alarm is one of the greatest joys retirement brings. I waited my whole life for this.

    The side effects of aging

    We’re supposed to get a big rain storm starting tonight, so I tried to squeeze in a round of golf today. I violated my first rule, which is never play on the day after Christmas. You know, boys and their toys, testing out the new gear Santa brought them. Fathers with sons home for the holidays.

    A happy Hallmark scene best avoided, in my humble opinion. I prefer slow days during the week with crusty old retirees like me dragging their clubs in worn-out push carts.

    You might laugh at my other rule if you live in a truly cold climate or have been battling the bomb cyclone. I apologize in advance. I know your weather has been devastating.

    If it’s in the 50s here in northern California, I wear three layers on the top and one layer on the bottom. 40s? I add long johns under my pants. It was in the low 40s today, but I skipped the extra layer on the bottom. I forgot I can’t hang in the cold like I used to. But yes, I’m playing golf in the winter.

    I don’t think one more layer would have helped much, but it would have been something. It was so cold. I was shivering and literally couldn’t function. I quit on the 6th hole and actually even ran a little bit to my car. I couldn’t wait to blast the heat. My old lady fingers tingled as they warmed up.

    Poor me, home again, safe and warm, back in my jammies waiting for the rain to start. For dinner, we’re having sandwiches with leftover Christmas roast beef. Yum.

    You may have noticed I comment on the political scene from time to time. I try not to overdo it. But as I think about life, aging and what it’s like to not work anymore, I tell myself it’s critical to stay engaged in important topics of the day. I mean, it would be easy for us to slip away quietly. I do think we become much less visible without a job, but that doesn’t mean we can’t have our say.

    So, today’s political mini-rant is Governor Abbott of Texas sending busloads of immigrants to Washington D.C. I understand we need to reform our immigration policies, but these people are not props. They are human beings, and it’s immoral to shuffle them around like excess inventory at the Amazon warehouse.

    We lived in Texas and have many fond memories, but that guy is messed up. I know, there ain’t no shortage of messed up people in powerful positions. I have never understood the vicious things people do to other people. Or to animals, for that matter.

    I’ve been retired more than five years, and for the first time, I received a holiday e-card from my old office. I don’t know how I got back on the list, but I was pleased to be included. That said, it did stir up some sad memories of a horrible job I had there that changed the whole trajectory of my career.

    In the end, I came out better than good, but the experience left some scars. I’ve worked on forgiveness, and I definitely purged a lot of anger, but I wonder how long it takes to truly get that business out of one’s system?

    Or maybe you don’t.

    It occurred to me, I could begin to frame this old work experience the same way I did after being diagnosed with cancer twice. It was no one’s fault. I was unlucky to get it, but I was very lucky to survive it. I still think about cancer and the way it has changed my life. Not why me, but wow, that was interesting.

    Maybe the best approach for life’s bummer events is: Don’t judge the feelings, just acknowledge them, accept them as part of life. Be grateful for the good stuff. I’m sure you had this figured out, but I’m late to the party.

    All that said, I’m grateful for the opportunity to age, but I’m not nuts about the side effects, physical and emotional. However, I saw a picture of Harrison Ford, who is 80, and it at least made me feel better about looking old. He looks good. Like really good. He just happens to be old.

    That’s kind of what I’m going for.

    And the beep goes on

    I’ve been feeling quite happy lately but not particularly inspired to write or work on my art. I wondered if it’s a message from God that I’m not very good at either one, and I should quit, and from there I started to shut down.

    Thankfully, I remembered my emerging theory that when evaluating the enjoyment factor of life after work, results are overrated. Just let go, she says to herself. In large part, retirement is about making it to the finish line and doing whatever you can get away with.

    While you were busy learning Mandarin or perhaps planning your next trip to Machu Picchu, assuming you can still get in and out of there, I took it upon myself to count the number of beeps I typically encounter in a day. I’m up to 15, but I’m pretty sure I’ve missed a few.

    It’s crazy how devices and appliances have wormed their way into our brains. I wonder if anyone has studied how this affects us. In a way, it’s like being zapped with a tiny dose of electricity every few minutes. That’s got to add up to something horrible, don’t you think?

    My wireless cell phone charger makes a double-beep sound when you hit the elusive sweet spot. The dishwasher beeps when it starts and again when it’s done. The washing machine is special. A beep to turn it on, a beep to select the cycle, yet another for the water temperature and a final beep to start the whole thing. When it’s done, it plays a string of beeps one might call a tune or jingle.

    The Washing Machine Song, not to be confused with the pizza song, which we actually wrote ourselves.

    Pizza, pizza, ya, ya, ya

    Pizza, pizza, ha, ha, ha

    Then there’s Dale’s old watch with an alarm set for 10:22 a.m. It goes off in a flurry of beeps every single day, but he can’t hear it, and neither one of us knows how to turn it off. Good news is I’m up by then, so it’s not really a problem. Not like the smoke alarm battery, which never, ever goes off during business hours.

    There’s more, but you get the idea. I mean it’s nice to have audible alerts, but in evolutionary terms, I’m sure there’s a price to pay.

    So, Christmas is on. We’re not doing a tree this year, probably because I’ve complained bitterly in the past about what a pain in the ass it is. Dale likes a tree, but a man can only take so much. I suggested we try it just this once without, and if he really misses it, I’ll back off forever. I think that’s a fair deal.

    We only get each other one present. A few from the sisters arrived in the mail. I suggested we put them under the coffee table in lieu of the tree, which we know now is on sabbatical. He sort of went for it, but the cat is not digging this whole scene. Everyday, the presents get pushed just a wee bit further out from under the table. It’s actually quite entertaining. If for no other reason, we’ll probably go back to the tree just to keep the cat happy.

    In terms of entertainment, I can recommend a couple of good books and a streaming opportunity. For books, I can’t say enough great things about Andy Weir’s Project Mail Mary. He wrote The Martian, which I also loved.

    Another excellent read was Lost in the Valley of Death: A Story of Obsession and Danger in the Himalayas by Harley Rustad. The story reminded me of Into the Wild by Jon Krakauer. It’s kind of sick and wrong, but I enjoy reading about these complex people who self-destruct in the wilderness.

    Although I’ve never read the Louise Penny books featuring Inspector Gamache, they are on my list. Conveniently, I stumbled upon Three Pines on Amazon Prime. The show is based on her books, and there’s only one season so far, but I like it a lot.

    I used to read a fair amount of science fiction but usually default to crime. After reading Project Hail Mary, I decided to make more of an effort in the sci-fi genre. Already downloaded and ready to go is Leviathan Wakes by James S. A. Corey. Space adventure featuring a detective! Like it was made for me.

    Warm, soft, extra-gentle yoga for wimps

    While I love exercise, I understand it’s not everyone’s cup of tea. Still, I think we all recognize we’ll age better with improved strength, flexibility and balance. I’ve been experimenting with yoga, and this is my hearty endorsement coupled with a warning about lowering one’s expectations.   

    I’m pleased to report after several weeks of chair yoga, my back still functions admirably, and I’m no longer taking Advil at night for sciatic pain in my legs.

    Normal people – that’s you – would do a little stretchy stretchy and accept their good fortune. But then there are retirees like me, who have been athletic and have a hard time adjusting to the physical limitations of an aging body. Sometimes that ego kicks in, and nothing good comes of it.

    As it happens, I was getting my hair cut and mentioned to my stylist I was doing chair yoga. She said I was too young for that, like it’s just for feeble old people who can’t stand up.

    I mean, I know that’s bullshit, but it was enough to make me think, she’s right, I could do more. I could get really good at this if I tried hard enough. I could end up teaching yoga! That’s how my brain works. I always dream big before reality sets in.

    And that’s why I decided to try “gentle yoga” at the fitness club where I swim. I’ll start slowly, not do anything dumb and work my way up to whatever is next – rough, cruel yoga? Bring it on! I had a yoga mat from the Year 1 and rolled it up like a pro. Dale said I looked just like one of the cool girls with my fancy tights and yoga mat in tow.

    As the group gathered outside the workout studio waiting for the other class to end, I chatted up some women and told them it was my first time. One said to grab a spot on the floor, so that’s the first thing I did, except she said not that spot … that’s mine.

    Just to be safe, I set up my station a few mats away. The instructor was a middle-aged woman who didn’t look like gumby athlete of the year, but wow. What she could do with her body. She went at a moderate pace and explained the poses reasonably well, but I found some of it difficult to follow. She also shared modifications that made the pose easier, depending on your capabilities.

    If I didn’t understand what to do or thought even trying it would put my back at risk, I simply didn’t do it. That’s the part about not doing anything dumb. Overall, I liked gentle yoga, but it was freezing cold in there, and even with the mat, that floor was rock hard. As in not comfy. I could kind of see my dream start to fizzle.

    Getting on the floor and doing those stretches took me to the edges of where my body should go. My back is a little sore, and I’m grateful I didn’t push any harder.

    While some soreness is inevitable, I presume, I’m not going to jack up my back in hot pursuit of downward facing dog. This is the part about accepting your limitations. The chair yoga is about stretching, strengthening and balance, and it works for me.

    Now, if they had warm, soft, extra-gentle yoga for wimps, I might reconsider. Until then, I humbly suggest the chair is our friend.

    Making peace personal

    Number 34

    The only prescription medication I take is 10mg of Lisinopril every day for high blood pressure. My doctor looks at me – lean, fit and healthy – and says it must be hereditary. Another reason the gene pool stops here.

    I’m guessing my blood pressure has been elevated since, oh, I don’t know, November 2016? I haven’t been monitoring it at home because I had lymph nodes removed (both sides) during my mastectomy, and I’ve read frequent blood pressure measurements in the arm can increase the risk of lymphedema. However, my oncologist recently said it shouldn’t be a problem, so I’ve been taking my blood pressure at home and keeping a log.

    The numbers have been great for months, but I noticed a spike, possibly around the mid-terms or shortly thereafter. You know. Trump 2024 – that sort of thing. Politics can fire me up, but I’m thinking, geez, I’m even doing yoga now. I guess no good deed goes unpunished.

    As I thought this through, I realized I’ve internalized some of the collective anger that has spread like wildfire across the United States. While I have a good life and think, oh, I’m happy and chill, and it’s not like I’m storming the Capitol, when I get in the car and someone tailgates me, I spew a stream of venom that would make a Twitter troll blush.

    I decided enough is enough. Do not allow the vitriol to sink in. Just don’t. I quit cursing at strangers from the privacy of my car, and guess what? My blood pressure is back to normal. Taking the meds, of course, but normal for me.

    So, my latest piece of art. Number 34. Maybe it’s about making peace personal.

    Exercise for introverts

    A chair yoga room of one’s own.

    A guy I play golf with took it upon himself to share his thoughts about my personality.

    He said I seemed intelligent and independent, but I was aloof and didn’t show enough interest in other people. I need to ask more questions, he said, if I want people to like me. I just nodded.

    Hmmm, so not interested in your thoughts on this subject.

    For the record, I’ve never been a social animal, just a few close friends, but people seem to like me well enough … as in not universally despised. That’s a distinction I’m rather proud of.

    My buddy is extroverted, randomly chats up people on the golf course and asks a million questions, some kind of personal, and although I find it annoying, it’s not a deal-breaker. As an introvert, I try to avoid the talkers, but somehow we started playing together regularly. He’s a decent fellow, and I don’t want to work all that hard to find someone new.

    I actually did play with someone new this week and thought, what the hell? Ask a question. The problem is questions lead to answers, and if you get a talker, sometimes those answers are more than you bargained for. Then there’s always the possibility of sliding down that slippery slope to conversation.

    Seems like I prefer exercise without conversation. I suppose that’s why I’m drawn to swimming and long walks alone.

    Anyway, my buddy and I are supposed to play again next week, and I’m hoping he’ll have moved onto the next person to fix. I’m not going to apologize for being an introvert. As always, I try to be a pleasant and encouraging partner. No temper tantrums. A laugh, a smile, a thumbs up. Great putt! Wow, you smoked that drive!

    Don’t get me wrong. I do enjoy people. Let’s get a beer afterward, and you can talk all you want.

    I don’t know why he felt compelled to share all that, but in the end, I’m glad he did. In a strange way, it was validating. As I reflected on his comments, I’d say he wasn’t far off on my personality assessment. The part he got wrong was thinking I should do something to change it.

    Feeling comfortable in your old flawed skin is one of the great pleasures of aging.

    Chair Yoga

    Yet another great pleasure is discovering something new that makes you happy. A recent addition to my happiness bucket is chair yoga. It feels good mentally and physically, and it’s reducing my back and leg pain.

    I did the 7-day free trial at YogaVista.tv and tested a variety of YouTube videos. I liked Yoga Vista a lot, but one of the instructors had a voice that reminded me of anesthesia, so I didn’t renew. I looked for similar sites that had a wide selection of chair yoga practices but couldn’t find any.

    After a week or so of random YouTube videos, I decided Yoga Vista was a better deal and signed up for $9.99 a month. There are lots of instructors, so I can easily avoid the drip, drip, drip of anesthesia voice.

    While gentle is not a word typically associated with me, I am trying to take the less is more approach to this new endeavor. My goal is to stick with it forever and watch myself grow stronger and more flexible over time. Some of the workouts also address balance, which is important, because we don’t bounce like we used to.

    I still attend the in-person class at my health club when I can, but I also set up an area in our guest bedroom, where I can take my laptop and follow the instructors on the screen. I like to think of it as a chair yoga room of one’s own, except I share it with the occasional guest and Dale’s war books. The cat seems quite mesmerized by the whole thing.

    Some of the chair exercises are sitting and some are standing, using the chair for support. I have just enough room to accommodate all the movements.

    Kind of perfect for an introvert, don’t you think?

    Random Sunday thoughts

    Number 33

    Goodness, I’m still messing around with blog design, so be forewarned. Just when you thought you knew what to expect, it will change. While I do love sharing my art, I’ve come to realize I need a simpler banner image. I went with a plain background of rippling water until something better comes along.

    I’ll continue to feature examples of my art on individual blog posts such as this one … and continue to update the gallery. As you can tell, I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing. But I can’t seem to give up, either.

    Number 33 is a little different, and I don’t expect to make statements like that all the time. That’s one of the reasons I didn’t want to see this particular piece as the blog banner. I like it a lot, and it’s a reflection of how I feel, but for me, not everything has a message. Sometimes it’s just crazy colors, pizza or cats. I do love that art can take you any way you want to go.

    We’ve talked a good bit on this blog about back pain and various activities that can help or hurt. My particular ailment, according to medical professionals, is a herniated disc at L4-L5, resulting in spinal stenosis and sciatica. I’ve been doing great and only have a little pain. And that’s with golf, walking, swimming and light hand-held weights.

    My neurologist said yoga or Pilates would be OK, but I hate messing with a good thing. Both seem fraught with peril. However, the club where I swim posted a flyer about a new class – chair yoga – and I went.

    The class was only 30 minutes, and you sit in a chair the whole time. I absolutely loved it and felt great afterward. I went for a walk later that day and wanted to run! Of course, I didn’t, but I think the yoga loosened me up.

    I’m going back for more and plan to ask the instructor what she recommends for an online chair yoga program. Our Covid situation is pretty good right now, but I’m assuming it will go downhill this winter, and I’d like to have options. I also want to hear her thoughts about slowly progressing to another class they have called Gentle Yoga.

    To celebrate, I bought some yoga tights. Because now I do yoga, right?

    My final random thoughts on this lovely Sunday. I’m so glad Halloween is almost over. I used to love it, but it’s so over the top these days. We watch a lot of Food Network, and it’s all Halloween all the time. Just get me to Thanksgiving safely.

    And for dinner … I’m introducing Dale to something I invented while he was in Maine. I’m calling it a Hot Dog Reuben. Just like a regular one, except I use hot dogs instead of corned beef. I split them lengthwise (but not all the way through) and sear them in a pan.

    Pretty darned good if I must say so myself. Not that hot dogs are a dietary staple at our house, but sometimes you just have to go for it.

    Art to the rescue

    Although I generally like the way I look, aging and all, I couldn’t stand staring into my face every time I clicked on the blog’s homepage. And then it repeated on all the other pages! It was too much. After tinkering with WordPress for quite some time, I gave up and posted a sample of my pallet art, which is now plastered across all the pages but is infinitely more pleasing to my eye.

    Above is Number 32. This time I experimented with the paint and went with something less than opaque. Also, peace! I mean, why can’t we have nice things? I thought I would rotate them as I create new pieces.

    There was a guy at work, George, who thought he was all that and a bag of chips. Rising gloriously from behind his desk was a giant and quite excellent painting of his own work, and I thought a guy who would do that has an ego that can’t be killed with a stake through the heart. I actually have a wobbly ego, but art makes me feel good, so I kind of get where he was coming from. Creating art gives you a sense of validation you may not find on the job or in the mirror.

    I’m grateful to have discovered artistic passion in retirement. I’m such a beginner, but I confess that recently I got a little cocky and purchased fancy paper and sketching pencils to see if I could broaden my horizons. I’m glad I did it, because I learned that sketching can be fun and helps me with designs for my woodburning art, but it’s the wood that keeps me coming back.

    While I’m no great artist, I find joy in taking scraps someone tossed and transforming them into something else. Anything I do to them is an improvement, so I can just let it rip. I have quite a collection now, and my house is like the Island of Misfit Pallets. In a way, we have rescued each other.

    My father was a creative dabbler who was always trying to make a buck and repeatedly failed at various entrepreneurial ventures. From importing jewelry to making metal replicas of social security cards, they all flopped. I find it interesting he was most successful at rescuing paper scraps from his job in a bindery and making scratch pads, which he sold at swap meets in Southern California.

    Sometimes it’s right there in front of you.

    The extra-slow cooker and me

    I haven’t been writing much, and that’s never good. But I have been thinking a lot about writing, so go me.

    In the absence of words, I decided to update my blog pictures. Updated banner and “About me” photos now feature my 67-year-old face and my current hair, a bob I refused to get when I was working because it seemed so cliché. But now that I’m a woman of leisure, it’s like, look at me, not the slug you thought I was!

    My big news is that I bought the KitchenAid slow cooker and used it for the first time this weekend. Dinner was Dijon and Cognac Beef Stew from the NY Times. The cooking section is now subscription-based, which originally pissed me off. I was reluctant to sign up, but I did it and have no regrets. I like the variety of recipes, which you can save and organize in a recipe box.

    The comments are particularly entertaining. There’s always somebody who says something like I’m allergic to kale, can I substitute canned beets? Or, I was born in wherever, and this recipe isn’t anything like the way my mother made it. Eventually, somebody says, no, if you can’t eat kale, find something else to eat or if we wanted your mother’s recipe, we would have asked for it. While the substitutions can get carried away, there are also some great tips from home chefs who have actually made the dish.

    But I digress. We loved this stew when I made it on the cooktop, but there’s also a slow cooker version, so I thought I’d check it out.

    Although I cut the beef up the night before, I chopped the vegetables and browned the meat in the morning. So, this is embarrassing. But Dale does most of the grocery shopping. I really didn’t know how much chuck roast cost. Now I do, and let’s just say I was careful trimming, as I didn’t want any of that precious jewel to go down the drain.

    Anyway, I also now understand why I didn’t buy a slow cooker when I was gainfully employed. Who has time to do all that before work? I got up at 4 a.m., and it was a close run thing to make it out the door on schedule.

    The slow cooker, in concept, now seems rather perfect for retirement. Some prep in the morning, but no super-early rise. A little clean-up, and then we can pretty much goof off all day. Ideally, it’s golf-friendly appliance. Returning home after a long day of recreation, dinner awaits! But then I have Dale for that, so I’m not really sure I need a slow cooker.

    I like to make soups and stews and missed tending to it. It made me nervous. Like, is this thing really going to cook? I’ve read you’re not supposed to take off the lid, so no tasting as you go, but leaving it completely alone is kind of weird. Now that I think about it, if I had actually gone somewhere, I wouldn’t have even noticed it.

    But it was Sunday, and we usually do our fun things during the week, when it’s less crowded. So, we just hung out, avoiding the siren call to stir that damned thing. Instead of bread, I made two small rounds of pie crust, baked them on a cookie sheet and then used them as toppers for the stew.

    Dale had to toss our other little treat so as to save us from ourselves. The meat was browned in the fat from rendered chopped salt pork. Those crispy pork nuggets are salty but rather delicious. Dale said his mother used to fry up little chunks and sprinkle it over fish chowder or boiled potatoes – just mash them right in with your fork.

    The outcome? Well, at low, the stew never reached a simmer, even after six hours. That’s when I breached the seal, and the beef was still tough, the carrots nearly raw. I had a slow cooker cookbook from the library, so I studied up a bit and set the heat at high for two hours. The book said some cooks use high for an hour at the beginning to raise the temperature and then set it back to low.

    The stew was good, but Dale thought it was hammered. But yes, that’s feedback from the human slow cooker, who just might want to preserve his legacy as the best cooker in the house. My complaint is that I thought these things were supposed to be “set it and forget it.” I went back to the Cook’s Illustrated review, and it appears I purchased the extra-slow cooker, which they still claim is a better machine.

    But it still has to reach a simmer in this lifetime, so there’s that.

    After reading all that and the consumer reviews, it appears I have to tinker with the times and settings, which annoys me, but OK, I’m in.

    I’m ready to try again and would welcome any tips you may have.

    The slower the better

    Life is pretty slow around here, so it came as kind of a surprise to find myself thinking about ways to take it down a notch. As many of us discover in retirement, there’s something rather comforting in the opposite of fast.

    One of the very best things about retirement is the new way of getting up in the morning. I call it the slow rise … it’s not just for bread anymore. Plump the pillows, stay cozy, do Wordle perhaps, doze off again. Think positive thoughts. Ease out of bed around 7 a.m. The slower the better.

    But I’m not here to talk about bread or wakening rituals.

    Maybe it was 2020, or was it 2021? I started to think about a slow cooker. It’s one of the few kitchen appliances we don’t own, and there must have been a hint of Fall in the air when I began to think about soups and stews and chowders and chilis, oh my.

    You can’t rush these things. It’s not like I don’t have the time to make them the old-fashioned way. And I’ve got Dale. He’s the human slow cooker. But it’s not like we need another appliance. Ever the dutiful student, I spent a couple of years looking at slow cooker recipes, to see if I’d use the appliance as much as I imagine. I’m saying yes.

    I experimented with the Instant Pot, to see if it’s a suitable replacement. I’m saying no.

    Then I read the reviews. America’s Test Kitchen likes this one.

    Finally, I looked at our space. We have three small appliances we’re not likely to use anymore, so I could easily imagine donating them to free up a spot for a new slow cooker. The stainless steel fish poacher was an ambitious leftover from the 80s, when we thought whole fish was cool and we hadn’t yet surrendered to the ease of filets. Before we learned poached is not quite the same as roasted, baked, sautéed, simmered, fried or frosted.

    Then there’s climate change, nuclear war – what could be so wrong about a little appliance that could bring me such joy in my final years?

    I’m running out of arguments and am close to pushing the button, as in low, 6 to 8 hours.

    What do you think? Unnecessary indulgence or kitchen essential? Busy retirees want to know.