Slow Cooker Hot Chocolate

Babcia Helen Kowalski died on Thursday, February 8th, 2018, at 3:47 AM, in her sleep, in her bed, in the house where she'd lived for fifty-three years. She was eighty-nine years old. She was the best person I've ever known. Mom called me at 4 AM. Her voice was steady — too steady, the kind of steady that means you're holding yourself together with both hands. "Jake, Babcia passed in her sleep." I said okay. I got dressed. I drove to Babcia's house. I don't remember the drive. I remember the kitchen light was on. Mom was sitting at the kitchen table. Dad was standing by the window. The aide was in the bedroom. I went into the bedroom. She looked small. Smaller than small. Like the bed was swallowing her. Her face was peaceful — she looked like she was sleeping, except she wasn't sleeping, she was gone, and the difference between sleeping and gone is the biggest distance in the universe. I sat with her for twenty minutes. I held her hand — the same hand I'd held in January, the same hand that had made a million pierogi, the same hand that had held mine when I was a boy. It was cool now. Still. The arthritis couldn't hurt her anymore. I said goodbye. I said it in English because my Polish isn't good enough. I said, "Thank you for the food, Babcia. Thank you for the kitchen. Thank you for the humming. I'll keep the dough moving. I promise." Then I went to the kitchen and I made coffee. Because someone had to make coffee. Because the living have to eat and drink and keep going, even when the world has subtracted from itself the one person who made it make sense. The next two days were a blur. Phone calls. Arrangements. The funeral home. St. Josaphat, where she'll be buried next to Dziadek Stefan. The Polish Center, where the reception will be. I didn't cook. I couldn't. For the first time in two years, I looked at the kitchen and felt nothing. No desire, no comfort, no connection. The kitchen was just a room. The stove was just metal. The food was just ingredients. Without Babcia, the magic was gone. Mom cooked. Dad sat in his chair. I sat in mine. The house was full of people bringing casseroles and condolences and I ate none of it and heard none of it. I was twenty-one years old and the center of my universe was gone. No Sunday dinner. Not this week. Maybe not ever again.

I made coffee that night because it was the only thing I could do. Pour water, add grounds, press a button. The kitchen was just a room and I was just a body standing in it. But people kept coming, and people needed something warm in their hands, and if I couldn’t make Babcia’s pierogi or anything else that mattered, I could at least set up the slow cooker with milk and chocolate and let it do the work for me. You don’t have to be a cook to make this. You just have to be alive, which is the only qualification I had that week.

Prep Time: 5 minutes | Cook Time: 2 hours | Total Time: 2 hours 5 minutes | Servings: 10

Ingredients

6 cups whole milk
2 cups heavy cream
1 can (14 oz) sweetened condensed milk
2 cups semi-sweet chocolate chips
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1/4 teaspoon salt
Whipped cream, for serving (optional)
Mini marshmallows, for serving (optional)

Instructions

Combine the base. Add the whole milk, heavy cream, sweetened condensed milk, chocolate chips, vanilla extract, and salt to a slow cooker. Stir gently to combine.
Cook low and slow. Cover and cook on low for 2 hours, stirring occasionally, until the chocolate chips are fully melted and the mixture is hot and smooth.
Whisk until smooth. Give the hot chocolate a good whisk before serving to make sure everything is evenly blended and silky.
Serve warm. Ladle into mugs. Top with whipped cream or marshmallows if you want. Or don’t. It’s good either way.
Keep it going. Leave the slow cooker on the warm setting so people can help themselves. They’ll come to the kitchen when they’re ready.

Nutrition (per serving)

Slow Cooker Hot Chocolate — Something Warm for the Living