I am the most wretched pressure cooker in all the world. Don’t ask how it could be otherwise. Please, just listen to me. I will tell you a strange story, never told before, of how I met fire in a bathroom. Yes, you did not hear wrong. The guy who had never opened the door of the kitchen cabinet where I was imprisoned for three hundred and twenty-one days, took me up to the bathroom. The bathroom!
As he was so anxious, I wondered if something bad would happen. At that moment I only thought: If only you cooked something in me at least once, if only you saw what I could do, you would drag something else into the middle of the bathroom floor. Not me. Unfortunately, I don’t have a mouth that speaks. I only have a steam vent to whistle the aroma of the food I cook into the air, but he did not hear it even once because he never cooked with me.