Just a few days ago although it seems ages now, I called Fran to ask her if she had one of those lovely French water heaters, you know, the kind you put the water into and press the button and in a few seconds you have boiling water for drinks. This is very European, and I think it uses a great deal of electricity. Everywhere in this country they have these wonderful boiling water things and everyone's always pressing the button and sipping some kind of infusion.
I was packing my bag for a morning of brainstorming and collaborative work chez elle and had this really great tea that I had received as a gift. I was going to come all equipped with tea and little pots from Tati to soak it in, planning to leave her the pots as a gift.
"What, you mean a kettle?" asked Fran.
"Yes, a ket-tle." I pronounced it in a way that cradled the 't' just behind the palate like she does it, and she laughed.
There was something resembling a kettle at my house growing up. It was this old bulbous thing morphed by heat into nearly a bubble. Who knows where it came from. Envious images of the kettles at my friends' houses growing up came to mind, the flat bottomed shining cruisers with all of the bells and whistles. When the hot water boiled, like a siren, a beautiful harmonious steady choir of readiness and steadiness of steam injected organized chaos into the crystalline gleam of my friends' polished kitchens.
This was in direct contrast to what went on at my house. When the kettle decided to finally boil, it just kind of huffed into our existing dimly lit rabbit hole mayhem with a halfhearted cloud of steam. It would roll lazily on its base a little bit when the water was not quite ready. I often preferred actually heating water in a pan so at least I could see when it was boiling.
"Put on the ket-tle, I'm-a coming up!", I hollered. I hit the road across the cobblestones and marched up the hill to St. Juste. I was hoping she didn't have a fancy one. It would have dashed my image of her.
Labels: Summer 07