Our eldest daughter destroyed a whole kettle. I won’t be totally surprised if this daughter does, too.
It is always a busy device in any kitchen of ours. But it’s surely the first year of a new human life which kills a kettle. Nevermind the pre-boiling needed for the milk formula; it’s that sterilising of absolutely everything.
8 years ago, we had one fizzle out on us. Fair enough, we thought. And, for a short while, we made do with boiling water on the stove.
In the UK, with a measly supply of gas, heating anything on a stove takes forever. Health and Safety, I guess.
That slow, mean heat is just plain bad for cooking Chinese food. But, while using a glass-lidded saucepan for boiling, this slowness did help me observe a Chinese water narrative.
In the world of Chinese tea, there are signposts assigned to different heating stages. Each stage is described by the size of the bubbles that appear in the water. And the analogous term used for each bubble-size is the eye of an aquatic creature.
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Lots of little creatures’ eyes. If you’re one of the (many) Chinese millennials who suffers from trypophobia, you’d perhaps better stop reading now.
As water first starts to release air, at around 70 degrees Celsius, the bubbles are called “shrimp eyes” (虾眼水). Tiny, regular, individuated, reluctant even to rise.
Those bubbles cling for a while. But as the temperature rises, they are supplanted by a new generation of bubbles: the “crab eyes” (蟹眼水), more ambitious to ascend. We’re at about 79 degrees Celsius now.
If the steam hasn’t obscured your view before you hit 82 degrees, you’ll see “fish eyes” (鱼眼水). Let’s call it a yellow croaker fish (黄花鱼), because those corneas are the size of these bubbles. We’re at the final stage at which the bubbles are individually-recognisable.
The next phase is “string of pearls” (涌泉连珠). This phenomenon kicks in at around 95 degrees. Bubbles are touching and merging, less uniformly sized and moving pretty fast. Big for pearls. More like kidney beans, I’d say.
Eventually, water at these temperatures will evaporate entirely away. But there’s still one more stage to go; “raging torrent” (腾波鼓浪). This is water receiving continued heat at the boiling point. The surface is choppy. There’s nothing one could call a bubble any more. Just raging.
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I’m grateful to the masters who recognised these epochal changes; “gradually-enlarging-bubbles” doesn’t do this process justice.
The qualitative observation is supported by science, too; while the larger, angrier bubbles are indeed water vapour, earlier bubbles are absorbed air gases; Nitrogen and Oxygen.
And each phase has relevance to tea.
I recommend summoning a string of pearls before scalding those rock oolongs and dark teas. Crab-eye water is ready for red and white teas, as well as the greener oolongs. Such hot water can also help strangle the last from a long-serving green tea serving. But shrimp eyes are probably the only bubbles we want to see when preparing fresh green tea.
Like many foreigners, I err on the cooler side of most steeping temperature recommendations. And, as much as I love thinking of these bubbly-eyes, it’s actually the sound which I use as my guide for tea, or the feel of the kettle’s exterior. In normal life, I seldom reach for those big-bubble states, especially not in summer.
Sure, the sterilisation of those milk bottles and plastic teats is going to require a few more raging torrents. But the baby now has teeth; she’s becoming more interested in food than milk.
Maybe our kettle will survive, after all.
