The slow cooker was not an appliance I was familiar with. I knew we owned one, having consumed its produce with relish on numerous occasions, marvelling at its sedate creativity. However, it was my wife who did all of the behind the scenes stuff such as chopping, slicing, crushing and general preparation needed to initiate the slow cooking process. This paragon of leisurely cuisine resided at the bottom of the kitchen cupboard behind the more frequently used toaster.

It was while removing the simple appliance for toasting bread from the cupboard, that I recognised this passive gadget from the hours it spent seemingly idle on the bench. I was then hit with one of the many heavy blows to rain on me in the weeks before and since its discovery. Those being the weeks following the tragic death of my wife from pancreatic cancer. I was beginning to become jaded with their frequency and the relatively innocent nature of the causes. The day before it had been her dressing gown hanging on the back of the bathroom door and earlier the same day two bottles of Ensure nutrition shake crouching at the back of the fridge behind the numerous jars of preserves and pickles. The list is endless. I suppose, when you share a house with someone for the best part of thirty-five years, most things hold some sort of memory

As I lifted the heavy pot from the cupboard, I remembered some of the many delicious meals my wife had prepared both with and without its patient efficiency. Yet again I was choked with the agony of grief in its most painful form. The tears flowed and my eyes and cheeks stung with their salty familiarity. I put down the pot and leaned against the kitchen bench, my hands grasping at its edge as if my life depended on it. My shoulders heaved uncontrollably and I gave in to the inevitability of another session of hysteria.

Some minutes later, I came out of it just as quick as I’d entered, like the sun coming from behind the clouds following a short, sharp rainstorm. I was left washed out with the only physical signs of my attack being the imprint of the bench on my palms and the tell-tale salty tracks on my cheeks. Pulling myself together and wiping my face with kitchen roll, I switched on the Chromebook and searched for “slow cooker recipes, Spaghetti Bolognese”.

In order to hasten my recovery, I proceeded to collect and prepare the ingredients that the recipe demanded. Carrots, celery and onions were finely chopped along with a rasher or two of bacon. I fried the bacon for a few minutes until crisp before adding the chopped veg, some fresh rosemary and garlic. Ten minutes or so later I dropped in the beef mince, turned up the heat and proceeded to brown the meat. The other herbs, chilli and two tins of tomatoes waited patiently nearby.

The circumstances leading to my wife’s passing are very difficult to relate even though they are vivid in my memory every waking minute. It was like living through some terrible, dark play with no interval and an inevitable tragic end. Seeing her suffer as much as she did was physically and mentally draining for me as well as the rest of the family. Close friends and neighbours were spared, thanks to my wife’s unwavering determination to conceal her suffering as much as she possibly could. However this in no way compensated for the shock they suffered on subsequently learning of her death.

Once the mince was nicely browned, I added the tomatoes, chopped fresh basil, dried oregano and two bay leaves. These would, with the help of this amazing pot, transform the meat and veg mix into a rich tasty ragout. When the mix was simmering, I added the penultimate set of ingredients, the tomato puree to thicken and enrich, red wine to add further flavour and chopped chilli, optional, for a bite of heat. The final ingredients of salt, pepper and Parmesan cheese would come later, to taste.

This was where the slow cooker came into its own, where time took over from relative skill to turn the raw mix into a beautiful rich red silken sauce. Where time is your friend, not your enemy, if you can appreciate her. It’s not about instant gratification, it’s about appreciating the passage of time and being able to take advantage of the deliberate nature of the tortoise as opposed to the haste of the hare. On returning to the silent magician, it just remained for me to boil some water and select the pasta of my choice to provide a medium with which to appreciate the richness of the result. This action mirrors life and the need to give it time to recover from such traumatic events. Then, one day, we will all be able to enjoy a lovely meal again.