In theory, with a little effort in the morning, a slow cooker greets you at the end of the day with a home-cooked, ready-to eat-meal (martini not included). Opening the door to the smell of lasagna, chicken soup, pot roast — to almost anything — is heaven. But most recipes call for three to six hours of cooking, so for those of us who are operating on more of an eight- to 10-hour schedule, that isn’t so convenient.

That thing that saves my weeknight dinners? I don’t call it a Crock-Pot®, or even the more generic “crockpot,” which technically isn’t a word, at least not according to spellcheck. I call it a slow cooker, because that’s what it is and I’m a stickler when it comes to words and not the least bit dogmatic when it comes to dinner.

We’ve all been there: You have friends over for dinner, you notice your dining companion about to dig in, and, for whatever reason, you also know they haven’t washed their hands. Powerless, you look on in horror as their hand reaches, as if in slo-mo, arching through the air, ultimately making contact with a pita chip. Which is then dragged through the delightful pesto you made with the last of your summer basil, dripping germs and who knows what else. And now?

Almost always! Because it’s fun! I mean, it can be. If appliance repair isn’t your idea of weekend entertainment, it may still be worth a try. Thanks to my need for a hobby, my appliances last even longer than expected. It’s simple: I refuse to give up on things that cost me a lot of money. Of course, there are times when a repair is beyond my skill level. I’ve learned when to throw in the towel, or call the appliance repair person, as the case may be.

My grandparents used to pour buttermilk into a drinking glass full of cornbread and eat it with a spoon. Nana called it clabber, and as much as I liked some of the unfamiliar treats at their house, this one was not for me. In retrospect, it might have been more appealing in a bowl … or maybe not. Anyhow, my point is that I have no interest in large containers of buttermilk, because most recipes call for a half-cup or less, and no way am I drinking the rest.

You know what? Celery is an excellent vegetable. It’s crunchy, piquant, and even good for you. Those pale green stalks are a welcome, although less-than-exciting, addition to a tray of crudité, and make up one-third of the base for a classic mirepoix. But beyond the snack tray and past its use as a kitchen workhorse exists a world where celery no longer has to play second fiddle.

You probably think I’m rude when I sneak away from the table, taking a few plates to the kitchen, trying and failing to go unnoticed. You probably think I won’t let you help because I’m too uptight about the way things are done. (You would have been right about that 10 years ago, but I’ve recovered, and will happily let other people clean these days.) Worst of all, it might seem like I want the party to end, and for you to go home. But none of that would be true.

Almost a year ago, I participated in The Kitchn Cure. I cannot recommend it enough. The Cure forced me to take a look at all the things in the kitchen I wasn’t doing, and all the little things I was doing that were annoying me. Miraculously, The Cure stuck and most of my kitchen is still in pretty good shape.

I encourage my children to shower before we eat, because I enjoy dinner, and nothing ruins the taste of a good meal like an unwashed soccer, tennis or basketball player. If I can smell them from ten feet away, the meal I’ve prepared loses its appeal. But before they get home, when I’m cooking that meal, I use my sense of smell to decide what the dish needs, without the risk of ruining the dish with a seasoning that just doesn’t work. How?

The bounty of summer produce is over, but here in South Carolina we find a lot of greens at the farmers’ market. That’s fine by me, because collards, chard and kale are abundant and I love them. What I don’t love is slicing them. Tearing greens with my bare hands will usually suffice, but there are times when I want strips, and I’ve finally figured out the best way to get them. When I discovered pre-sliced collards, I was thrilled, but I craved chard and kale, too.

I’m a member of a Facebook group where people share what they’re making in the kitchen: the trials, the tribulations, the recipes. It’s a fun group, and most of the cooks are southern like me. Recently, a member posted this, “I made really good rice!!!!!!! yeah 2014.” I responded to the post, asking what brand she used, prepared to hear about her amazing rice cooker. Her answer surprised me, though it shouldn’t have.

When a twig of thyme is perfect, at least for my purposes, the leaves practically separate themselves from the branch. But that rarely happens. The twig is too thin, or too green, or there are twiglets hanging off the twig that fall into my dish along with the leaves. Picking the leaves off one by one is tedious and I like to add a lot of thyme. But the other night, I finally figured out a way to make this easy. Without even checking the stems, I ripped a handful of thyme from my plant.