January 20 2008, 11:35 PM Hey, Tea

The kettle I have is in the main utterly and thoroughly unremarkable, one factory finished mass-produced gentle lump of stainless steel and black heat-resistant plastic, the sole moving part being the little lid that flips up with the aid of a trigger for the first finger. It has been a part of my kitchen for a while, and time has burnished it with scratches and bumps and dings. This may stand to distinguish it some, but I doubt in any meaningful way.

There are two useful quirks to the thing. The first is the whistle, embedded in that little flip-up lid. The whistle turns out to be a perfect place to hilt a little stick-type dial thermometer, which in turn makes it easy to brew tea and coffee at proper temperatures, if one has a mind to do such stuff. As a secondary benefit, having a thermometer thrust into the throat of the whistle in the kettle does an admirable job of quieting it - at full bore, the whistle keens bright and shrill enough to peel paint.

The second quirk is the whistle. I have discovered by accident that if I leave the kettle on low (which, upon my stove top, as still something of an aggressive stance) the steam inside builds with a steady, gentle curve. The kettle when ready produces not the shrill tone of high fire, but instead a dulcet warble. I do not leap from the blankets and hasten to the kitchen to kill the heat, but instead can be afforded a stately stretch and amble. As a secondary benefit, it usually takes long enough for this to happen after putting the kettle on that I have pushed the thought from the foreground, and the arrival of hot water becomes a pleasant surprise.

The English are claimed to make good kettles: simple ones, with sweet character. I'm looking into this.

They say that the temperature tonight can be counted on one hand, and as the evening has rolled on, they've been saying less and less of a hand is going to be required. Be warm.