Before Christmas, I had exactly one friend who owned a pressure cooker—which he'd used unsuccessfully to process psychedelic mushrooms back in his misspent undergrad years. A dozen years later, the aging vessel, with its hair-trigger jiggler top and dust-caked lid, lives in a box in his parents' garage. Or maybe they've thrown it away. Frankly, he neither knows nor cares. Like most kids who came of age after the Carter years, he's never used a pressure cooker to cook an actual meal.
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