A few years ago I started
converting over basic kitchen gadgets to Rosle, a manufacturer of gorgeously
constructed utensils. Its website
assures people that “Every product is designed to perform a specific function
superbly.” So spending $43.62 seemed a
reasonable price for a can opener that typically costs about a third of
that.
I decide to make tuna for
lunch, and use my can opener for the first time. It doesn’t work; I can’t get it to grab on to
the lid. The more I try, and the more it
fails me, the more stupid I feel. At one
point I’m sure I’ve purchased a left-handed can-opener though of course no such
thing even exists. I read the
instructions. I mean really, who needs
instructions for a can opener? Still, I
can’t get it to work.
I take my can of tuna down
to the basement of my building where the handyman is hanging out. He’s too busy to hang a fan in Alexander’s
room this week, yet he’s easy to find sitting at his desk. Mike is one of those guys who can look at
something and know exactly how it works.
My father is like that. I envy
these skills. When Alexander was very
young, he could easily follow complicated Lego instructions. The first time I tried, I failed
miserably.
Mike opens the can in two
tries. I feel ridiculous, thank him, and
return to my apartment. The lid of the
metal can is now sitting atop the tuna and I can’t get it out. I feel like there must be a hidden camera
somewhere in my apartment recording this.
Another trip down to my basement and this time I find Jonathan, the
porter and part time doorman. He takes
the can and gently squeezes it.
Voila. The top pops off.
I’m committed to learning
how to work this thing. I’ll just
factor in an extra hour next time I make tuna.
Another embarrassing admission:
it’s about the only type of can I ever open.
Life is difficult enough
without having to be challenged by the mundane.
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