I tried to ignore the liquid dripping from the base of the pot and sliding over the counter to the floor as the water approached bubbling and steam filled the air. It has been ongoing for a few months. The pot also occasionally shuts off by itself midbubble. The pot is kicking the bucket, so I’ve recently been exchanging it back on, cleaning up the puddles and refusing to admit the obvious. Why have I been joined to a pot? Is this magic?
Will I be unwilling to pay for another one? They are excellent questions.Actually, the pot’s only ability is to heat water till it boils, which I assume is a form of sorcery. Furthermore, I’m sufficiently dissolvable to purchase new tiny machines if necessary, despite the severe financial challenges of 2020.
My mother made the pot. It was my mother’s pot, and it has lasted quite a while longer than she has.
It is roughly 18 years old and a Sunbeam KE7500 type 606. Normally, I would have believed it was barely hanging on in the previous ten and a half years. So many times I made plans to weep for a lifeless piece of metal that, to be honest, Mum didn’t use all that much. Even before that, I bought another one because I was convinced of the occupant’s future success. It continued to exist, however. I’m not sure if I even have a way of thinking that guides me through yesterday’s ritual, or if I just assume that muscle memory takes over the moment I get up. I have a bad memory. When I woke up this morning as I do every day, my cat gently batting my face as I fell asleep for the eighth time, I stumbled to the kitchen and started the tea pot.