the perfect kettle

Bill left us today and he’s on his way back home after opening a big complicated show and working himself into a blinky scruff dreaming of his tropical getaway. He was gentle and kind and easy as pie to be around. My old dog preferred to sleep on Bill’s rug, not mine. The cat came in for many a cuddle. Animals are a good judge of character. As he shuffled out the door with his bags, he gave Nora a high five and me – he handed me – a kettle.

First of all, he has already overpaid me for rent. Secondly, he took the time to think about what I might need. He noted that a hit of red would look perfect in my kitchen – he’s a designer after all. He noted I loved my le creuset frying pan and mugs. And maybe he understood that I shun most kettles because they are an aesthetic assault, a clutter, an arrogant decider of when my water has boiled enough. Maybe he knew I needed to see to the bottom of everything so that’s why I go stove top? Those enclosed little white plastic kettles with their frigid little peevish spouts…? I have no room in my life for one of those. They should be rounded up with every microwave on earth and be disemboweled for the betterment of humanity.

My red kettle is good and right and honest and sturdy and beautiful. I think I will probably have it for the rest of my life. The most remarkable thing about this present is…when on earth did he have time to pick it up? The man worked night and day and was pressed to find time to wash his socks or get a hair cut. The time taken, the thought. That’s what gets me the most.

Now that’s how to give a present.

Bonjour, dear Bill, my kettle whistles your kindness.