Last year, I finally did it. After months of adding and removing the Our Place Dream Cooker from my cart on and off, on and off again, I committed. Two hundred dollars. For a pressure cooker/slow cooker/sear-sauté situation that promised to change my life. The website called it a "multi-cooker," which honestly should've been my first red flag because anything that tries to be everything usually ends up being nothing to me.

But oh, was I sold.

Have you seen this thing? It's gorgeous. Minimalist. Elegant. It looked like it belonged in one of those kitchens where people actually fold their dish towels into perfect thirds. I was deep in my minimalist phase and this cooker was speaking my language.

They offered it in different colors, but obviously I went with "Steam" because it matched my other Our Place cookware that I'd equally convinced myself would transform me into someone who meal preps on Sundays and knows what to do with fennel.

The Three Days I Was That Person

When that box arrived, I was over the moon. The packaging alone was nicer than anything I've ever given as a gift. I unboxed it with the reverence usually reserved for very expensive cheese. The cookbook that came with it? Beautiful. Full of recipes for things like "Moroccan-Spiced Chickpea Stew" and "Perfect Risotto Every Time." I was already planning my new identity as someone who makes risotto on weeknights.

For exactly three days, it lived on my counter, looking like a trophy for adulting. Then reality set in. Even though it was supposedly "compact", it still took up prime counter real estate. So I did what any reasonable person would do. I found it a nice home on the bottom shelf of my pantry, promising myself I'd use it all the time.

Then This Happened

Months passed. MONTHS. That beautiful cooker sat there, judging me every time I reached past it for the regular pot I'd been using since forever. Finally, guilt and a Pinterest recipe converged into what I thought would be our moment of glory.

Fava beans. My husband and I had found this incredible-looking creamy mushroom and white bean soup recipe that required properly cooked fava beans. This was it. It was the Dream Cooker's time to shine.

My husband prepped everything. Beans washed. All necessities chopped. dream cooker finally freed from its pantry prison. We were so ready to be the kind of people who casually mention that they made fava bean soup from scratch.

The cooker did its thing. Steam released. Beeps beeped. Everything seemed perfect.

And then, because I apparently have nothing better to do while waiting for dinner, I decided to Google "fava beans nutrition facts" or something equally innocent.

Do you know what Google told me? FAVA BEANS CONTAIN CYANIDE.

Now, listen. I know. I KNOW. It's a tiny amount. People have been eating fava beans since the beginning of time. Mediterranean cultures practically survive on them. The amount of cyanide is negligible and cooking neutralizes most of it anyway. I know all of this NOW.

But in that moment? All I could think was that I had just spent an hour slowly pressure-cooking poison in my beautiful $200 cooker.

"We're not eating this," I announced to my husband, who was literally holding a bowl ready to serve.

"What? Why?"

"Cyanide."

"What?"

"THE BEANS HAVE CYANIDE."

"Are you serious right now?"

I was beyond serious. We threw out the entire batch. An hour of cooking, all that prep, straight into the trash. We air fried potatoes and ate in silence while the dream cooker sat there, contaminated by what I just discovered.

Now We Don't Talk About It

That was eight months ago.

The dream cooker has not been used since.

Every time I think about making chuck roast or trying that risotto recipe, my brain immediately goes: "That's the cyanide pot." Which is completely irrational. I WASHED IT. With very hot water and lots of soap. Multiple times, actually, because I thought maybe if I cleaned it enough, I'd forget about the beans.

I didn't forget about the beans.

Sometimes I'll open the pantry and see it there, still beautiful, still minimalist, still judging me. Occasionally I'll take it out, look at it, consider using it, and then put it back. I would liken the feeling to visiting a relative you feel guilty about not calling more often.

My husband has suggested we use it approximately forty-seven times. Each time I've found a reason why slow cooking may just not work for that day. He's stopped asking.

Okay, Fine, Here's What's Really Going On

Here's what I've realized. I'm never going to be the person who casually pressure cooks things. I'm never going to meal prep on Sundays. I'm probably never going to make risotto on a weeknight, or any night, regardless of what pot I use.

I bought that Dream Cooker because I wanted to be someone else. Someone more organized, more sophisticated, more... minimalist but somehow also making elaborate meals from scratch. Someone who doesn't associate kitchen appliances with poison after one completely safe google search.

But I'm me. I'm the person who spent $200 on a cooker that's now basically a very aesthetic storage container for my guilt. I'm the person who threw out perfectly safe beans because the internet mentioned cyanide. I'm the person whose "minimalist phase" ended the moment I realized I actually like having seventeen different spatulas.

I've Tried

I've tried to rehabilitate our relationship. Really, I have.

There was the week I decided I'd make pepper soup. Pepper Soup! A childhood favorite. It’s basically very spicy bone broth. The dream cooker would finally fulfill its destiny (for once). I looked up several recipes and created a table comparing cooking times.

It's been three months, still planning.

Maybe This Was Worth It?

You know what though? That $200 "mistake" has actually been worth it, just not in the way Our Place intended.

Every time I open my pantry and see it there, I'm reminded that I don't need to be perfect. I don't need to be the person who makes bone broth from scratch or knows what to do with dried chickpeas. I'm allowed to be the person who has a really nice cooker that's basically become a time capsule of good intentions.

It's taught me that sometimes we buy things not for who we are, but for who we think we should be. And that's okay. That space between who we are and who we aspire to be? That's where growth happens. Or in my case, where $200 appliances go to become meditation objects.

Will I ever use the dream cooker again? Maybe. Probably not for fava beans, though.

Actually, definitely not for fava beans.

But it looks really nice in my pantry, and sometimes that's enough. Because if there's one thing I've learned from this whole experience, it's that the dream of who we could be in the kitchen is sometimes worth $200, even if all it does is sit on a shelf, looking beautiful and reminding us that we tried.

Also, if anyone wants a slightly haunted but very aesthetic Dream Cooker, I'm kidding, I'm keeping it forever, it matches my other stuff.