How I stopped being scared and learned to love my Instant Pot

The Instant Pot has been hailed as a culinary marvel, able to cook everything from a pot of dried beans to succulent pot roasts in under an hour. Miracle, right?

But since I acquired one two Christmases ago, it has remained lodged at the rear of my bottom kitchen cabinet stuffed behind a Cuisinart, a panini press, and a yogurt maker. (OK there’s a bottle of Mezcal down there, too.) I’m a single mom, so I appreciate any culinary innovation that is healthy and efficient. Why am I stricken with anxiety anytime I see my Instant Pot peering back at me?

For starters, I have trouble with milk cartons, so the gadget’s complexity is daunting. There’s programming involved, and my fear of what will happen when I open and close the lid: All that steam, heat, and pressure meeting my awkward, unskilled grasp. I’m plagued by visions of food splattered all over my kitchen walls, with me possibly injured, hapless at the center of it. These are just my practical concerns. My anxiety is further compounded by the guilt I feel every time my stepmother asks, “Have you used it yet?” (She always asks.)

Or the way people respond in abject shock when I confess my Instant Pot insecurities. “Seriously? It’s so easy,” they say. Any time my brother-in-law says things like, “I made the best carnitas!” I cringe and ball my fist, thinking, that should have been me! as wave of envy ripples through me.

A month ago, my desire to provide my son with warm, healthy, no-fuss meals overrode my neuroses. I swallowed my pride, braced myself, and texted the same brother-in-law for advice. He replied with a recipe for garlicky Cuban pork.

With my son safely at a friend’s house, I pored over the pressure cooker’s user manual, which is comparable to assembly instructions for an IKEA bedroom set. After familiarizing myself with the settings, safety tips, and ominous warning icons, I plugged in the pot.

Before I programmed the test run, I added two cups of water and secured the lid. I anticipated beeps, leaks of steam, even soothing messages from the digital display to diminish my fear the thing might explode. None came. The pot did its thing, but I was tempted to position my hand over the pressure release valve, even though it says everywhere, don’t. If I had, I suspect I’d have joined other weekend warriors in the ER. When the test run cycle concluded, I bumped the pressure release valve while attempting to wrestle off the lid; the valve spat scalding water and steam, hissing at me like a raccoon in daylight. I grabbed a pair of oven mitts and prodded it with a long wooden spoon, hoping the machine would calm down eventually. When it did, unlocking the lid proved effortless.

With the test run complete, I used the sauté setting to brown the pork I had pre-marinated. I didn’t have cumin, so I substituted coriander. (I was too stressed about blowing up my kitchen to worry about splitting hairs.) After pouring the remaining marinade over the caramelized meat, I repositioned the steam release handle, clicked on the cover, and programmed the pressure cooker setting for 80 minutes on high. Voilà.

An hour and a half later, I got a slight thrill whacking the pressure release valve with that wooden spoon, venting pent-up steam — and maybe a bit of my anxiety. Opening the pot, I unleashed a fragrant scent of citrus, oregano, garlic, and coriander, revealing meat reduced to shreds at the mere touch of my fork.

My son, my aunt, her boyfriend, and I feasted on the garlic-laced pork that night. We tucked tender shards of meat into warm corn tortillas with sprigs of cilantro, avocado, and a squeeze of lime. Basking in my triumph, I called my stepmother to say I was excited to cook more Instant Pot meals. She said, “You can bake with it, too.”

“Baby steps,” I replied, as I broke out the Mezcal in honor of the occasion.

A.E. Harter is a writer, a single parent, and a mystic. She lives in Los Angeles with her 10-year-old son.