I bought the ThermoPal because I wanted my coffee to stay hot during long mornings at my desk. According to the website, it would “revolutionise my relationship with temperature.” I had previously managed this relationship with a kettle, but I was willing to explore new possibilities.
The mug arrived in a box large enough to accommodate a small microwave. Inside, it sat on a bed of black foam, looking less like kitchenware and more like a witness awaiting questioning. The instructions advised me to connect it to an app, create an account, enable notifications, and select my preferred drinking temperature.
The app then informed me that my mug was offline.
After several attempts, I discovered that the mug required a firmware update before it could perform its principal function: keeping coffee warm. This seemed an ambitious order of operations. Nevertheless, I updated it, paired it, charged it, and watched a small blue light blink with the confidence of a device that had never met a deadline.
The coffee was excellent for approximately twelve minutes. Then it cooled, as coffee has done for centuries. The app suggested increasing the temperature setting. I did so. The mug displayed a warning that its contents were already too hot.
I admire the ThermoPal’s commitment to involving me in the process. It has transformed a simple act into a collaborative enterprise involving electricity, software, and several opportunities to reconsider my life choices.
Would I recommend it? To anyone who enjoys coffee, probably not. To anyone who believes every inconvenience is an invitation to optimise, certainly. The ThermoPal does not make coffee better. It makes drinking coffee feel like managing a junior employee.
I have returned to my old ceramic mug. It has no app, no firmware, and no opinions about my temperature preferences. It simply holds coffee. In this increasingly rare achievement, it is a market leader.
Fiction note: The product, company, website, and events described in this text are fictional.