I thought the burnt kettle might actually stick around and cool off for a little while, but she got thrown out into the street along with the rest of Friday's useless garbage. Poor little thing...I wanted a picture to commemorate her months of service. She was white with little flowers. As a result of her tragic destiny, she ended up grayish black with melting petals. Oddly enough, I believe someone might have premeditated our feminine teapot's untimely death. About a week ago a big, blue, masculine teapot showed up in the apartment. Come to think of it, I didn't ask why or from where. He just appeared, sat patiently next to the stove letting the lady do her job for a week or so, perhaps taking pointers, and then took over as the protagonist teapot as of this morning. Because he's a male teapot he's bigger and holds more water which never impressed me because I only need enough for one cup of coffee. But he does whistle...something extremely characteristic of all males here in Buenos Aires. This whistle, for once, is appreciated.
Your WOTD:
silbar [sil-bar']: to whistle Listen
