The Hobart Chronicles XXXIII: [Nearly] Burning Down The House

"Get you a copper kettle
Get you a copper coil"
- Bob Dylan, 1970

"Three hun-dred six-ty five de-grees
Burning down the house"
- Talking Heads, 1983

D’ohmestic Queen (TM). That’s me. While cooking on Sunday, I needed a dash of water to keep the food moist. So as usual I grabbed the kettle which sits nearby and helped myself. No problem.

Well, yes problem. I put the kettle down on the stove. The stove element happened to be on. The kettle is – or was – electric. You can imagine what happened next.

The error became apparent to me only when I noticed the curry smelt rather synthetic. I turned to see white wisps of evaporating plastic disappearing up the range hood. When I grabbed the kettle and turned it upside down (water cascading everywhere) the plastic had a distinct swirl matching the electric element burned right into its arse end. Kaput.

One colleague thought it terrifically amusing. After hearing I’d burnt the kettle, he’d joked that it wasn’t wise to put electric kettles on the stove to boil, ha ha – only to find out that was pretty much what I’d done. How mortifying to realise you are actually as stupid as someone else’s stupid joke.

But when I put the kettle out in the rubbish last night, I felt sad. That kettle has served me for 9 years. I remember buying it with a gift voucher from my then employer as a sort of ‘bonus’ – a generous gesture for a not-for-profit organisation, and welcome considering the pittance I was earning. It wasn’t very pretty – no-nonsense white plastic – but it was tough. It held 2 litres. It filled innumerable cups of tea, topped up percolated coffee, and restored hot water bottles to life, whenever it was asked and without complaint. It was the first electric kettle I ever owned.

Is it wrong to feel affection for inanimate objects? I was so upset when my old Honda, the Low Flying Lady, broke (or was broken – another story for another time) that I told my then listening audience all about it. Struck with sympathy, they rang in with offers of parts and replacement engines; one even sent me a fax of condolence. (I sold the LFL to a listening farmer for a song who gave it a heart transplant; it’s now living out retirement as a paddock basher near Gunnedah.)

Old glasses, favourite mugs, comfy clothes, familiar furniture – they all come to the end of their useful lives and that’s normal. But I still feel a little twinge of grief when they have to go.

The only plausible reason I have is, never having known or achieved a truly profligate lifestyle, I tend to keep things for a long time. They begin to grow on me.

This was especially true during those halcyon uni years, where every piece of furniture was hard won through relentless scrounging, or lovingly passed from one share-housing hand to another. (I once got a cat this way. In fact, I twice got a cat this way.) Posters were carefully peeled from pub walls when the bouncer wasn’t looking and ferried home under jackets. Glasses were carefully peeled from pub tables and ferried home stashed in backpacks.

Even now, of all the furniture I currently own, only two things were bought new (three if you count the washing machine). Everything else is second hand, recycled, reconstructed or donated. My wardrobe is a bit more evenly distributed, and thankfully these days the kitchen is definitely more new stuff than old, not a bad policy when dealing with food.

Speaking of new in the kitchen, I tired very quickly of making tea in the microwave, so I've bought a new kettle. It was hideously expensive, for a kettle! But as I may be stuck with it for a decade or so, I decided to have one I enjoy. It’s not copper, but stainless steel, and the green glass lid floats up when the catch is released. It makes a pleasing little ding when it’s boiled. And in memory of its predecessor the old clunker, it’s also a Breville.

Vale, Fair Kettle. You’ll be missed.