The Watched Pot Never Boils

I drum my fingers on the granite countertop. It doesn’t even send gentle ripples across the surface of the water. How annoying—I definitely drummed them with enough force for at least a small tremor.

With a huff, I drop my chin into my hand and take to tapping my legs, counting the seconds. Maybe if I stare hard enough at the stainless steel pot, the fire from my eyes will make it heat faster. I crouch so my eyes are level with the water. And I stare, narrowing my eyes like that will do anything. It doesn’t even give a perfunctory bubble.

I groan. Surely it shouldn’t take water this long to boil. I have done everything perfectly—measured the water to the milliliter, added the salt, turned the stove as high as it will go. Or… did I? Maybe I got the ratios wrong, or maybe I made a fatal error by not immediately putting the lid on. Is the burner even on? A quick tap to the stovetop and the singe of my skin tells me, yes.

Then what the heck is taking so long?

Leaning back against the countertop, my eyes never leave the pot and the unboiled water. There should have been bubbles by now, or even the gentlest, laziest curl of steam to show that something is happening. That a chemical reaction beyond what I can see is occurring, creating a chain reaction that will turn this unremarkable pot of water into a popping, bubbling masterpiece.

The seconds on the cuckoo clock hanging above the stove tick, the pendulum swinging back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. My finger taps along with it, my patience going up in smoke much faster than anything else. I could sit here forever watching this pot, waiting, and I doubt it would ever come to a boil.

When the doorbell rings, I’m drawn from my perch and my dogs come running down the stairs. Even my husband emerges from his office at the commotion. I open the door to smiles and greetings, my family arriving for dinner. I apologize that dinner isn’t ready yet. The table is set and the flowers are cut, but until the water boils, I cannot finish cooking the meal.

But when they get past the threshold, my mom points to the rising steam from the pot and the soft pop of bubbles. “It looks like it’s boiling now,” she says.

I want to laugh. If all it took for the pot to boil was to look away, I would have done it ages ago—maybe then dinner would have been ready on time.