I grew up in a house where the pressure cooker was used just about every day – it was usually brought down to opening temperature by being lifted into the sink and the tap turned on to run cold water over the edge of the lid and down one side until the weight stopped hissing and could be tilted to the side to let out the last of the steam before opening the lid and dishing up the contents.
I only remember one explosive event, when we were living in the guvvie, and an ambitious load of rhubarb from the garden leaked through the “nipple” and gummed up the weight, leading to a volcanic eruption that not only decorated the ceiling with red rhubarb juice, but also a fair proportion of the rest of the kitchen. We moved house shortly thereafter! 
Like mark_m, my parents did their slow cooking with the use of a simmer mat, and yes, it’s active ingredient was asbestos! I loved the smell of stews, casseroles, and soups spreading through the house on a cold winter’s day.
I discovered crockpots when I went to university – not only were they indispensable in the kitchens of group houses, but they made their way (illegally) into dorm rooms, sometimes accompanied by those other plug-in cooking appliances the electric frypan and the Birko.
When I invented my legendary vegetarian Bolognese sauce to use up the flood of pumpkins, zucchinis, and tomatoes from my garden, the grated-and-braised hard vegies joined the tomatoes with the herbs et cetera in the crockpot.
I have recently been forced to give away my pressure cooker because, despite ostensibly being made of stainless steel, it fails the fridge magnet test and won’t work on my new induction cooktop.
