It's All Y-Chromosome, Baby
To properly put this little bit of nowhere into context, I must first relate a quirky little tale that happened, oh about 6 years ago, give or take a summer. With me working the summers in Toronto, I stayed at my gracious uncle's 1-bedroom apartment for the 2-3 months of work. This is where, incidentally, I discovered that for about 3 years the best thing for me to sleep on was a cot; oddly enough I was more comfortable on a fold-away cot than any other bed or mattress.
But I digress.
All of you are no doubt waiting with baited breath to hear of some age-old humiliation, naturally at my expense. If you ever ask my uncle, he will be more than happy to share my embarrassment with you. All I can say in my defense was that it had been a long day, and I was very tired. I cannot recall whether it was a weekday or a busy weekend day, but i do know it was one of those days that ends with the letter 'y'. As we rested our weary feet and contemplated getting back into the act of walking only after a few days of sitting down, my uncle and I decided that tea was in order.
I volunteered to go get the tea ready. Now again, I shall try to impress upon you all (and probably fail) that it had in fact been a very long day, and I wasn't thinking straight. So, I decided to make tea by boiling water in the kettle. My uncle had (at the risk of spoilers, notice the past tense) a nice electric kettle.
First, I plugged the kettle into the kitchen wall socket.
Then I took the kettle, set it on a stove burner, and cranked up the heat on the burner.
About 5 minutes later, my uncle noticed the pungent, acrid smell filling the apartment. Bewildered and fearing something was about to spontaneously combust, he investigated the kitchen. Seconds later I distinctly hear him exclaim in disbelief and amazement, "You just killed my kettle!!"
Yes indeed, I had quite effectively fried my uncle's electric kettle on the stove. But it's not like he hadn't been contemplating buying a new one anyways. And just how useful was that kettle, in the end? Despite being on the burner, the water didn't even boil! *tch!*
The misadventures with the stove don't stop there, where due to some selective dyslexia on my part, I've turned on the rear stove burners instead of the front stove burners, and fried a few other things that weren't meant to end their existence in such a harsh manner. So far the count has been 2 stove burner covers, and the kettle. There may be something else, and I've just tried to regress the memory.
So what does all this have to do with today's little bit of nowhere?
Well, I just learned today that the ability to burn kettles on the stove is genetic. There must be a "kettle-killing" gene on the male's Y-chromsome, since my Dad neatly fried a kettle on the stove upstairs. He fell prey to the same selective dyslexia, and in wanting to heat a large pot of soup on the front burner, he turned on the rear burner instead. The victim in question (aka, the kettle) happened to be sitting peacefully on the wrong burner at the wrong time. Though scarred, this kettle survived the ordeal.
So the "Kettle-killing" gene is not limited to me. With my Dad displaying its traits, I have come to believe that just as this gene was passed down from him to me, so too will it be inhereted to any sons I might have. Oh, how I shall stare wistfully at the molten hunk of metal that was the family kettle, and nostalgically say, "Standing here smelling that foul odour, I can remember the day I fried my first kettle! I'm so proud of you, son!"
Whereupon, Mel will no doubt smack me upside the back of the head for encouraging the kid to destroy perfectly good kettles.
Today's Lesson: a burning kettle has a peculiar yet distinct smell. (Not that I encourage to find out what that is, so you can recognize it for later...unless you're inviting me over to your house and you ask me to fix you tea.)
posted by Phillip at 6:49 PM
