A scarlet letter

"A DORMITORY FIRE SAFETY INSPECTION WAS CONDUCTED IN YOUR ROOM TODAY, AND AN UNAUTHORIZED HEAT PRODUCING APPLIANCE WAS DISCOVERED. THIS APPLIANCE (HOT POT) WAS CONFISCATED. YOU WILL RECEIVE AN E-MAIL FROM THE CHIEF FIRE INSPECTOR LATER IN THE WEEK."

I tear the vermillion slip of paper from my desk, fiercely scanning the room for the criminal appliance in question. My eyes come to rest on the shelf where I store my chamomile and Swiss Miss ... slowly, horribly, the realization dawns on me as I look at the disheveled array of mugs. The bastards stole my teakettle.

I wilt into a chair, hearkening back to my days as a lawful tea-brewer: days when I could sip my cup of Earl Grey in peace, warming my hands by the cheery glow of the teapot without fear of oppression. But that time of innocence is gone. My favorite unauthorized heat-producing appliance has been brutally wrested from my possession.

They didn't even call it a kettle, I think, shaking my head with disgust. It was wretched enough that they so roughly apprehended her. But to call her a hot pot? It made her sound like a hussy, an unprincipled receptacle that would boil tea for any casual caller. They have scorched her soul with this foul branding iron, this scarlet slip of paper. Again the ignominious names ring out: Hot Pot.

Enough of this blasphemous debasement. Hooligans have stolen my kettle, and they're going to pay. I need it. I've used it at least twice since September, and both times were equally essential to my health and wellbeing. Time to track down these slip-dispensing rogues and avenge my kettle's honor. They won't be hard to find; all brutal-looking men resembling Neanderthals and hefting satchels filled with teapots are suspect.

Yet for all my bravado, deep down inside I know that the news has reached me too late. The fire-inspecting heathens are in Metuchen by now. Two days later, I discover a message - from kenpaul@princeton.edu - in my inbox. I cast a fleeting glance at my plundered tea shelf and open the e-mail:

The findings from your Dormitory Fire Safety Inspection: Violation: Hot Pot Fine: $50.00 Appliance(s) will be held at the Inspection Office for the remainder of the current academic year.

Sitting enraged before the monitor, I hurl impotent insults at the screen with a mixture of plaintiveness and righteous wrath. Who do they think they are? How do they sleep at night? Have they ever encountered the cataclysmic loss of a favorite heating appliance? They took my teapot away for the fun of it. I know. And I will not rest until I have saved my kettle from becoming the new floozy sexpot-hot pot around Fire Inspection Headquarters.

Resisting the urge to comment on the $50 fine I've been served for owning a piece of plastic, I write to kenpaul with restrained cordiality, asking for the reason behind the confiscation. The next day, I receive a response; "Specifically, the appliance has a lid which can be raised and permits more than a liquid to be entered into it."

I am forced to concede to kenpaul's point. My kettle does indeed have a flip-top, which I could easily fill with kerosene, miniature fire-logs, whale blubber and other flammables commonly used by 21st-century college students. The weak electrical power of the kettle, scarcely able to boil water, would undoubtedly have ignited such a vat of combustibles. My teapot holds within it the power of a thousand bonfires.

Perhaps, I think, it was wise of kenpaul to take the kettle away before I tea-brewed my way into a reenactment of "Backdraft." But as I examine my tea-shelf, I realize that the only part of my collection that seems remotely flammable is the paper packaging of my instant cocoa. I return my attention to kenpaul's e-mail. My mouse poised over the reply button in the e-mail server, I spend a happy moment contemplating the array of responses I could make.

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Dear Ken,

Please enjoy attached voodoo curse:

%#*)(&Q)%&)*#@&T)(&$E)#&^%)(&#(#T^)!&#%*&)(&$&%)(#^!!!?!??!!?

Or:

Dear Ken,

Glad to see your team missed the faulty sockets, exposed wires and blowtorch. I'll swing by for my "hot pot" later in the week.

Or:

Dear Ken,

Go die.

Dragging my mouse away from the reply button, I close the e-mail account with a sigh of resignation. They know where I live and could probably confiscate all my toilet paper if they got mad enough. Screw kenpaul ... Hester Prynne, man, she knew. I smile to myself and settle down for a cup of steaming chamomile, brewed in the kettle from the girl who lives across the hall. She hides her teapot under the bed.

Becca Foresman is a sophomore from San Diego, Calif. She can be reached at foresman@princeton.edu.