My friend Mike makes this legendary Mississippi Pot Roast that simmers away in his crock pot for 8 hours like a Southern miracle. The aroma alone could make angels drool. When that rich, savory scent curls through the air, you’re instantly Pavloved into submission—mouth watering, eyes glassy, stomach speaking in the international language of deliciousness ahead.
But here’s the thing: Pot Roast Club is invite-only. The chosen few get to partake under strict, sacred guidelines.
Rule #1: Do not open the crock pot.
Not a peek. Not even a teensy little sniff. The punishment is immediate and dire—something between a painful death and even worse - lifelong banishment from the invitation. And listen, I would never actually open it...but being told I can’t makes me want to so badly. Every. Single. Time. Because, well—me.
Rule #2: Eight whole pepperoncini peppers.
Not the slices, not the rings, not “these banana things were on sale.” Eight. Whole. Peppers. Mike says it like it’s carved on a tablet handed down from Crock-Pot Moses. His MPR is always perfection on a plate and I can screw up a Pop Tart. If Mike says 8, then 8 it shall be.
So, when my father and stepmother were coming over for dinner, I crossed myself, took a deep breath, and decided to attempt this sacred dish. This was risky because unlike Mike, I lack both recipe intuition and the joy gene for cooking. Some people find peace in the kitchen; I find rage, resentment, and flashbacks to my youth.
I suspect it’s because cooking was weaponized in my childhood. “You’ll cook dinner for the next week” was punishment for a litany of teenage misdeeds like bad grades on tests, talking back, and missed curfews. It didn’t exactly spark a love of the culinary arts for me. Add to that the fact that cooking is something you have to do every single day until you die, and suddenly dinner feels less like domestic bliss and more like Guantanamo with a side salad.
And don’t even get me started on choosing the right meat cuts. Listen, I understand chicken. Chicken makes sense to me: breast, thigh, wing - light and dark meat. But red meat? That’s a cow anatomy exam I never studied for. The words “Get some meat for dinner—not chicken” strike terror in my soul. I freeze in the refrigerated section, staring blankly at slabs of animal, like Indiana Jones in a death puzzle. One bad choice and I get squished by a rampaging bull in aisle 7.
I marched into the grocery store armed with my list and as much confidence I could muster for a woman who had no idea what she was doing nor desire to do it.
Ranch and Au jus packets—check.
Butter (Mike insists on the high-end Irish Kerrygold. None of that “I can’t believe it’s not butter” blasphemy in this recipe) —check.
Up next was the protagonist of this party…the chuck roast. I stared into the meat refrigerator, dead things stared back at me. Well, not stared (at least for the most part). A drop of sweat rolled down my temple, blurring the words on my scribbled list of ingredients. Rib, loin, round, flank, brisket, plate, and shank. None of them said “chuck”.
WHY DON’T ANY OF THEM SAY CHUCK? THE RECIPE SAYS “CHUCK”!
I was mere seconds away from lying down in the aisle in a pile of confusion and self loathing, when a butcher noticed the mercifully pointed me toward the right chunk of cow.
Phew - crisis averted. Only one ingredient left - the jar of whole pepperoncini peppers.
Now, I had a few at home, but those poor things looked like they’d been through the Confederate War. I needed big, puffy, condescending peppers. And unlike the chuck - I knew where they lived.
Only to discover a massive restocking cart thwarting my escape. Boxes barricaded me from completing my mission.
Just as I was about to climb the pile like Everest, a man popped out from behind. “Hey there. You lookin’ for something?”
I just about jumped out of my skin. “Yes,” I said, trying not to sound like I might need him to restart my heart with his pricing gun. “A jar of pepperoncini peppers. Would you mind handing me one?”
He teasingly dangled my coveted prize over the Great Wall of Condiments —then yanked it back.
“Many a Friday night,” he said, squinting meaningfully, “have been spent with a jar of these and a case of Natty Light.” He looks at the jar, looks back at me, smiles and says, “What do you think?” And then he winks.
Oh. My. God. Is he serious? This is why I hate cooking!
“Wow. You sure know how to spend a Friday night. You know what? I think I have enough of those at home.” and then I gracefully removed myself from that situation. And by “gracefully removed” I mean “jogged out of there like I just shoved a fistful of ghost peppers into my mouth and needed to go somewhere to die”.
Turns out Mike was right—a pair of pathetic pepperoncinis do not a proper Mississippi Pot Roast make. Mistakes were made that day. I mostly survived my Pot Roast Club initiation… and learned that the real danger isn’t opening the crock pot.
It’s shopping for the ingredients.
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Tracy Winslow is classically trained from Juilliard, and has been an Executive Chef at multiple Michelin Star restaurants. When she isn’t showing a box of Annie’s who’s boss - she is adding more fiber to her diet as the owner of Low Country Shrimp and Knits. Stop in to get something ah-MAY-zing for the fiber lover in your life this holiday season. And, we ship! www.shrimpandknits.com