The Wishbone Alphabet – an experiment, of course, with attitude, life and the eponymous soup.
I have been strolling the fields with Dog. The weather swirls from hot to cold, an assortment of fattened clouds are dumped across the sky, humidity fluctuates from one step to the next, like the dial has broken. It reminds me of when I’m tired and trying to cook. The weather is trying to remember how to knock up a thunderstorm, but keeps putting the cumulonimbus down somewhere in the troposphere, and promptly losing it. Then it forgets the dewpoint of water. And how much turbulence to add? Tiredness is a great friend to forgetfulness. I’m tired now, and in the mood for a mug of red bush tea.
We have a new red kettle, it looks super-pop-fresh after the years-of-grime abstracted colour of its predecessor. If we wish for a cup of tea we simply turn on a tap; at worst, the cold tap sticks a bit; and fill the device up to an appropriate marker. Flick a switch, the electric element will boil it for us.
Sometimes I favour a hob kettle, because it whistles at me when the water boils. My grandmother once told me she used to hard boil eggs in her hob kettle. I tried it; the water held an eggy fragrance we weren’t keen on.
I sit at the kitchen table, watching the steam. It sustains the same absorbent energy as gazing at fire, or landscapes, or wild water. I love to peek inside as the convection current twists, although one should be wary of steam burns.
Another everyday under rated bit of amazingness, ladies and gentlemen: the kettle.