The pot and the kettle

“Ring ring!”
“Hello, Kettle speaking.”
“Hey, it’s just me, the Pot. I was just ringing to get your attention. For fun. I’m actually sitting right over here, next to the fruit bowl. Turn it, tuurrrnn it. There you go. Hey. What’s up?”

“Oh you know, nothing much. Just hanging out, heating a latte, on my stainless steel range, glancing in the general direction of the New York Times over there on the counter. Have you seen that story what’s happening to all those poor kettles in Brooklyn? So many cabinet-less kettles out there. It’s a systemic problem for black kettles, it seems. I feel bad. I wish I could do more.”
“Waitwaitwaitwaitwait. You feel badly for black kettles? You do know you’re black, right? Your mom was pure cast iron.”
“No, she was Teflon. I thought I told you about her that night, at the dinner party, during the polenta incident. Or was it before… Anyway. She was Teflon.”
“Honey, nothing that heavy is Teflon except Ronald Reagan. Just because she went off to the great Goodwill drop-off in the sky doesn’t mean you can deny.”
“There’s no denial happening here. I’m all stainless steel underneath this jacket. I just thought you knew that about me, that’s all.”
“Uh, nope. That is no jacket and you are no stainless steel. It’s cool, it’s cool. Just don’t forget where you came from, that’s all.”
“Is this becoming a racial issue? Because I don’t like your tone.”
“Uh, again, no. I’m just keeping it real. From one black piece of kitchenware to another, let’s not kid ourselves here.”
“I’m starting to steam, so I think it’s probably best if we go back to our separate burners and cool down.”
“Fine by me. Don’t let that ladle slap you on your way to the sink.”
“Oh I won’t. And it’s a spatula, asshole.”
“Oh, go fork yourself.”


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