Nothing says I love you like a new crockpot.

Tim and I have a knack for losing crockpots. Our first was missplaced somewhere between University Avenue and Wymount Terrace. I'm assuming that neither the friends and family we'd enlisted to help us move our stuff out of our first apartment nor the selfless neighbors who left their wives and families in the student housing complex to help us move in had sticky fingers. Nevertheless, somehow, somewhere, our crockpot made its way out of its moving box. I hope it found a good home.
Over a year ago, I loaned our crockpot to a friend whose own crockpot was still in Michigan with the rest of the stuff that hadn't made its way West when they found themselves relocating here. She returned it soon after by bringing it to church, where I left it in the kitchen, and then went home. I forgot to retrieve it the next week, and the next, and the next. I'm sure some shopper at Deseret Industries is now the proud owner of our second crockpot.
We've gotten by without it, though occasionally we'll get a bit wistful for our labor-saving small appliance. I've dreamt of Crockpot Lasagna more than once. And Perfect Potroast. And BBQ Beef Sandwiches. So when Tim surprised me with yet another crockpot on Valentine's Day, I was elated. What a romantic. Oh and the chocolates were a nice touch, honey. Especially now that they're pasted to my thighs.