Slow Cooker Apricot Pork Tenderloin

The first week of knowing. The first week of the word "divorce" living in the house with us, invisible but present, sitting at the breakfast table, riding in the car to school, standing in the kitchen while I make dinner for two children who don't know yet that their family is about to change shape.

We told Mason and Lily on Wednesday. Scott and I sat on the couch — together, touching, performing unity one last time — and I said, "Mama and Daddy are going to live in different houses. But we both love you, and that will never, ever change." Mason looked at me, then at Scott, then at me again. He said, "Is it because you were sick?" And I swear to God, the room went silent. Five years old and he cut to the heart of it with the precision of a surgeon. I said, "No, baby. It's not because I was sick. Sometimes grown-ups need different things." He said, "Okay." He didn't cry. He went to his room and closed the door. Lily, who is three, said, "Can I have a popsicle?" because three-year-olds process differently, and also because it was hot.

I went to Mason's room after Lily was in bed. He was lying on his back, staring at the ceiling, holding the rock-polishing kit box like a shield. I lay down next to him. I said, "You can be sad." He said, "I'm not sad. I'm thinking." I said, "What are you thinking about?" He said, "If Daddy moves away, who will take me fishing?" I said, "I will." He said, "You don't like fishing." I said, "I like being with you." He turned his face into my shoulder and I held him, and he didn't cry but his body shook, and that was worse than crying, because crying is release and shaking is holding everything in, and my five-year-old was holding everything in because he'd learned, from watching me, that Dawson people hold things in. And I hated myself for teaching him that.

Scott is looking for an apartment in McCall. He wants to go back — back to the mountains, back to the fire community, back to a life that doesn't include the woman who had cancer in the kitchen he shared with her. He'll take the kids one weekend a month. He said "one weekend a month" like it was a generous offer, and I didn't say what I wanted to say, which was: you have been absent one weekend a month for the entire marriage, and now you're making it official. Progress, I suppose.

I called Mom. I said, "Scott wants a divorce." She was quiet for a long time. Then she said, "I know." I said, "How?" She said, "A mother knows." She didn't say she was sorry, because Diane is not sorry about things she expected. She said, "Come home this weekend. Bring the kids." And I did. I drove to Twin Falls on Saturday with Mason and Lily and Hank in the backseat, and Mom had dinner on the table and the beds made and the house warm and ready, and she didn't ask questions and she didn't offer advice and she held me in the kitchen doorway and let me cry on her shoulder, which is the thing I needed, the only thing I needed: to be someone's child again, for just one minute, before I had to go back to being someone's mother.

Mom made her pot roast. The Sunday one. The one that means home. I ate it and tasted it and it tasted like every Sunday of my childhood and every Sunday of my future, and I thought: the recipe doesn't change. The men leave, the marriages end, the cancer comes and goes, but the recipe doesn't change. The pot roast is the constant. Diane's pot roast is the fixed point around which the entire Dawson universe revolves, and as long as the pot roast exists, I will be okay. I will be okay.

When I drove back to Boise on Sunday night with two sleeping kids and a dog who smelled like Mom’s carpet, I kept thinking about what she’d said without saying it: that the meal is the anchor, that the act of putting something in a pot and letting it go low and slow is its own kind of faith. I don’t have Mom’s pot roast perfected yet — that’s hers, and I’m not ready to ask for it — but I have this. My slow cooker apricot pork tenderloin, the one I can set before the school run and come home to, the one that fills the kitchen with something warm and sweet when warm and sweet is exactly what we need. It’s not the same recipe. But it’s the same idea: you show up, you feed the people, you hold steady.

Prep Time: 10 minutes | Cook Time: 4 hours | Total Time: 4 hours 10 minutes | Servings: 6

Ingredients

2 pounds pork tenderloin (about 2 tenderloins)
1 cup apricot preserves
1/3 cup low-sodium soy sauce
3 tablespoons Dijon mustard
2 tablespoons honey
3 cloves garlic, minced
1 tablespoon olive oil
1 teaspoon smoked paprika
1/2 teaspoon ground ginger
1/2 teaspoon onion powder
1/4 teaspoon black pepper
1 tablespoon cornstarch mixed with 2 tablespoons cold water (optional, for thickening)
Fresh thyme or parsley for garnish

Instructions

Season the pork. Pat the tenderloins dry with paper towels. Sprinkle all over with smoked paprika, ground ginger, onion powder, and black pepper.
Sear (optional but recommended). Heat olive oil in a large skillet over medium-high heat. Sear the tenderloins for about 2 minutes per side until golden brown. Transfer to the slow cooker.
Make the glaze. In a medium bowl, whisk together apricot preserves, soy sauce, Dijon mustard, honey, and minced garlic until smooth. Pour evenly over the pork.
Slow cook. Cover and cook on LOW for 3 1/2 to 4 hours or on HIGH for 2 to 2 1/2 hours, until the pork reaches an internal temperature of 145°F. Do not overcook — tenderloin dries out quickly past temperature.
Rest and slice. Transfer pork to a cutting board and tent loosely with foil. Let rest for 5 minutes before slicing into 1/2-inch rounds.
Thicken the sauce (optional). Pour the cooking liquid into a small saucepan over medium heat. Stir in the cornstarch slurry and simmer for 2 to 3 minutes until the sauce coats the back of a spoon.
Serve. Arrange sliced pork on a platter and spoon the apricot glaze over the top. Garnish with fresh thyme or parsley. Serve with mashed potatoes, rice, or roasted vegetables.

Nutrition (per serving)

Slow Cooker Apricot Pork Tenderloin — The Recipe That Doesn’t Change