(Dedicated
to my dear dad Graham who would have turned 80 on the 2nd September
2017. Remembered with much love).
During the recent relocation of
my mother into her new home we uncovered amongst her stored belongings an old
thermette (the ultimate all-in-one outdoor kettle)…possibly mark II or III. A dearly
loved item of a second generation pyromaniac. While beyond salvation, this
rusty old item reignited happy memories of Sunday afternoon drives and riverside
picnics. The family tradition of gathering sticks small enough to poke down the
central funnel ensured that a warm cuppa rewarded our efforts whether it be
scavenging through the riparian brambles for blackberries or plucking lichen
from fence posts.
The lighting of the contents of
this metal tower however would often be accompanied by the predictable overuse
of “bugger it” and much mocking from the circling spectators. For successful
combustion seemed to rely on an aligning of stars- a firm footing, clement
weather and flammable flotsam. Added to this, the delicate blowing on the
embers to initiate the ritual.
The picnic rug pivoted around this
beaut little boiler to accommodate the shifts in wind and to escape the plume
of smoke which billowed into our eyes as we waited for our brew. If by some
misfortune the cavity was overfilled we would be treated to an eruption of
spitting beads at the five minute mark. Now only if the damn thing could be
manoeuvred to release its contents without third degree burns. Don’t be
alarmed, dear readers. This task was reserved for the thermette queen with her
subjects safely at five paces.
Hoorah……success.
Ah, what could be better than a
family outing, roadside foraging, fire, a fancy biscuit and a cup of tea? Happy
days.
Sharon Cook
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