It is not just taking the pot out of the cupboard. That could mean anything. That is certainly no reason for any sort of excitement. It is not until the pot is filled with water that the next events become nearly certain. If it were just a soaking, some kind of rinse water, they would choose one of the large bowls. But they did not. It is the pot.
The water is cool to the touch when it comes from the faucet. It rolls and slips around the inside of the pot, miniature waves cresting higher and higher along the inside, filling it slowly and generously. But never all the way—never to gratuitous overflow. Just enough so the insides feel heavy, so the water sloshes unsteadily in a way that begs to be set on a solid surface.
And a solid surface it gets, although not one that will decrease agitation. The metal arms of the burner are cold at first, stained with the product of performing this ritual over and over. The bottom of the pot comes to rest on them with a sharp metallic gasp. There is an uncomfortable squeak of protest from their joining as the pot shifts, the metal burner raking harshly across its bottom. The water in the pot tremors uncertainly. A drop leaps defiantly from the surface, but does not manage to surge out; it splashes uselessly against the inner walls of the pot and slides sullenly back down.
The flames are presaged by an ominous clicking sound, like the ticking of a timer. Click-click-click-click-click and then fwoosh as the burner sends flames springing to life beneath the pot. A tick of shock from the metal is covered up completely by the hungry hissing of the flames as they envelop the bottom of the pot. Eager fingers of fire caress the metal, slipping around the edge teasingly, tickling at the flat surface.
The water is stoic at first, showing nary a hint of agitation. But the pot itself is not so calm; fog beads tentatively around the flames' teasing grasp, there and gone again, helpless condensation that marks where the heat plays on the surface of the metal. The bottom of the pot is becoming warm, its temperature forced up and up by the relentless attention of the fire.
Soon, even the water cannot resist the tongues of flame as they lick around the pot's curved ridge with devilish inconsistency. Beads of air begin to form on the inner surface of the pot, clinging with all their might to the metal as the heat agitates them, pushes insistently at them. The water ripples with the pressure of holding back, of trying to deny the inevitable. But it will not take long. It never does.
The bottom of the pot has already surrendered to the heat, caught helplessly by the brunt of the merciless flames. It is reduced to their will, and the water can do nothing but follow. Despite all efforts to leech some coolness from the air, to remain in control, the insistent heat forces a single bubble to lose its grasp on the edge, sending it shivering up through the water to burst with a gasp at the surface. Soon another and another are propelled upward, though the pot's surface clings to them as long as possible.
Little seeds of energy, signs of the helpless rise of temperature, flood forward more and more, grow larger and larger. The more attempt to remain clustered in the pot the more are forced away and burst as the insistent flames hiss excitement at the closeness of their victory. The surface of the water is agitated now, rippling and roiling and finally it is impossible to hold back any longer and the largest bubbles begin to move, shooting upwards and rolling and frothing at the surface as the water gives way and comes to a boil, at the utter mercy of the fire, and now helpless before whatever foods may follow.