My electric kettle and other boiling observations

Today, the electric kettle I bought (because I saw one in the house of my first employers) broke. I was eighteen and fascinated by the way they unscrewed the bubbling water to serve the-worst-coffee-you-can-drink. I would think, “only Brazilian beans will come to my house.” From that day on I wanted so much my hot water to be boiled in modernity in seconds, I wanted a decline on the curve of my graph of domestic disaster, I wanted the possibility of silent explosion, with a blue button that changes from blue to gray and turn itself off when ready. Six years ago, I decided that on my next paycheck, I would buy an electric kettle. When that Friday came, I remember browsing the online list around with my eyes wide open. Hoping to find the prettiest kettle my money could buy. For no more than seventeen US dollars, my white kettle arrived well-packed with accents that light up blue and gray. The kettle moved with me to every nook and corner that I’ve ever fled to call home, to every house I prepared, molded, the ones that I ran away again, to all kitchens I shared, even the ones I didn't clean, the ones that needed extermination … It was packed in all the boxes I filled when I gave up, every time I had to rebuild the concept of home. It remained on top of all the marble-counters that I spilled coffee drops throughout these 6 years. I remember I tried to start drinking hot tea during quarantine, but really I’m a fan of iced tea, which made my kettle useful for everything but tea. It boiled my water for coffee and rice and pasta and dumplings and anything else you needed of water in the state-of-little-bubbles. An electric kettle turns itself off and for all these years I didn't get used to the button dropping in a little noise: “click” it would go. And whenever I did “click” I thought, “click,” dammit, that's it, it's over! It knew its boiling point and “click!” the button moves. Just one sudden yet soft noise – it falls, as if I've never pressed it. It goes “click,” as if I've never made my own “click” to put it up. The kettle says “click” as if to say, “I know when it’s time to stop.” People say that when I laugh, I make a kettle sound. Secretly, I think to myself that this person mustn’t have an electric one. Because mine goes “click” and I certainly don't laugh like “click-click-click.” Honestly, it  would actually be great, imagine! Laughing with such precision, laughing like someone who announces the right end for a choice, a decision, a phase, that boiled for long enough. My kettle died in the worst way: it lost its energy. Burned, it burned like every technology’s fate. After all, for seventeen dollars, I should’ve known better if I wanted it to last as long as I would, too, or until I developed an emotional technology to understand life’s boiling points. I was also half dead and burned out when she died. As a person who always found a very interesting life in things and objects, now that I have to think about how to discard an electronic teapot that lost its technology it feels like planning (as dramatic as it sounds) a funeral of a part of me. Mind you, this is not a letter of repudiation to the traditional iron kettle (the one that never leaves the top of that-one-piece stove) we are also very good friends,  from time to time, we even gossip about our old-look issues. This is  a type of farewell letter to my many observations that were only possible because of this magic kettle. A letter that bids farewell to the 18 years old me, who bought her very first home appliance.  As I write, I started to think about it all. I just checked through the window to see if the kettle was still there in the recyclable garbage bin. It looks sad and very unprepared for this type of environment. My kettle was always positioned with so much love in the many homes I've had. Probably when I finish writing and go out to start my day without its “click,” I'll rescue it. Not to accumulate, I'm not that type of person, but maybe for a photoshoot because nothing is more tech than this. Maybe for one more conversation - because nothing is more “me.”