If scientific rationalism had a body it would be the kitchen sink. Turn the right tap, you get cold; the left, hot. Beyond that, there’s little to inscribe in your field notes. There’s the silver spout that curves at the end where the water pours out. Though spout sounds like snout, the former defies comparison. Too inert and inexpressive for you to write “elephant’s trunk”; too impartial to silverfish for you to propose an anteater’s long proboscis. Fridge, stove, then the sink. They neatly sum up the kitchen. The sink is the most passive of the three. It confounds, gives the least back to you, yet it’s the one you’ll find immortalized in a book of idioms: “everything but the kitchen sink.” It plainly refuses to be anything but what it is: the place where water comes from and where it disappears when you’re done with it. Is there anything more crucial? Though you’re tempted to write “stainless steel oasis,” the kitchen sink is the kitchen sink. Unambiguous, amazing.