At 5:30 a.m. on an icy January morning, I sat up groggily. A poor night’s sleep in the six-man mini-dorm of Mule Creek State Prison explained the stupor as I began my five-step morning ritual. A cup of hot coffee: the ultimate goal of my morning’s ablutions.

• Step 1: put on pants and socks;
• Step 2: pour a quart of water into my hot pot from a bedside water bottle;
• Step 3: Plug in the hot pot;
• Step 4: quietly walk to the bathroom 15 feet away and urinate;
• Step 5: walk back to my locker — and call the fire department.

Many prisons do not provide microwave ovens or steaming water from handy faucets accessible at 5 a.m. Personal hot pots fill the void and allow for a cup of coffee or a cup of soup at midnight if desired.

Purchased from outside vendors in the approved Quarterly Package Program, this privilege allows the California state prison population to possess three electrical appliances. The $20-$25 hot pots, a fan, or an electric shaver are favored products, though the bulk of a quarterly package (up to 30 pounds) is comfort food and personal clothing unobtainable in prison canteen. 

These two to three- to three-quart capacity hard plastic units are thermostatically controlled to a maximum of 160 degrees. At that low temperature, cheap instant coffees do not blend well, and Ramen noodles take forever to soften. As a result, inmates mimic the Tim Allen character on TV’s “Home Improvement” show and seek more power. More is always better—until it isn’t.

I approached my bunk and locker, sensing an acrid electrical stench in the air, and immediately recognized my error. A brilliant orange glow surrounded the base of my hot pot and fogged the nearby window…

Like Tool Time Tim, ersatz inmate electricians surgically bypass the thermostat while cleverly concealing outlawed modifications to obtain more power. The result, usually, is boiling water at 212 degrees in just minutes, enabling hot coffee, steamed tortillas or creative chefs to concoct gourmet-like meals. Some innovative cooks cut notches in the rim of a cereal bowl to enable steam to escape the perfect-fit vessel as it floats in the hot pot. The innovative can then heat pastries, burritos, or tuna melt fillers in the miniature oven.

However, because the thermostat is bypassed, the boiling water bubbles away like a witch’s cauldron and must be monitored closely lest the unit run dry. Steam burns are common as the water evaporates, but the homemade microwave oven is worth the effort— until it isn’t. Like the January morning when I neglected Step 2: “pour water into the hot pot”— I hadn’t.

Returning from my three-minute bathroom absence, I stumbled back, and with some frustration dodged boxes of personal storage and clotheslines, the crowded space reminding me of a scene from the movie “Blade Runner.” I approached my bunk and locker, sensing an acrid electrical stench in the air, and immediately recognized my error. 

A brilliant orange glow surrounded the base of my hot pot and fogged the nearby window.  No fire yet but the cloud forming would quickly set off the nearby smoke detector. Instinctively, I yanked the cord from the wall outlet and grasped the searing pot’s handgrip, intending to carry the melting mass to the sink area—hopefully before anybody noticed. As I lifted the hot pot about 12 inches, the base remained glued to my locker top. The round plastic reservoir and handle were still connected to the base by spider-web-like strands of molten plastic. Tendrils of acrid smoke escaped from the melted mass.

When a hot pot runs dry through evaporation or, in my case, inattention, the unit seldom burns. The naked heating element gets red hot and melts the plastic casing, typically creating nylon lava, with clouds of attention-getting smoke. Electrical shorting usually kicks the circuit breaker but actual cell fires do occur. The thermostat modifications are seldom noticed or acknowledged by staff until a disaster or two. Confiscation of a modified hot pot can result in disciplinary action but the occurrence is rare. 

My meltdown woke up only one cellmate; a slight snicker confirmed he knew the familiar smell at its cause. A four-letter explicative from me may have alerted one or two others. But it was still early and they just rolled over and went back to sleep. ‘See no evil, smell no evil’ prevailed and we all laughed about it the rest of the day. A couple of my cellmates shared their own meltdown experiences. One had a major meltdown, like mine. The other caught it early though a water leak developed, ultimately causing an electrical short and no possibility for replacement parts. 

My hot pot meltdown occurred just weeks after I received a quarterly package. I could not order a replacement for almost three months. Murphy’s Law prevailed for another quarter when my favored hot pot was out of stock; my neglect cost me almost six months without this vital appliance. 

The inevitable embarrassment, and risk, was when I had to turn in the destroyed hot pot to receive the replacement. The officer in charge saw my trash bag-encased hotpot remains, sniffed the electrical stench, and then just smiled at me as he handed me my new quarterly package. 

“Next!” he shouted, and I took my prize back to the cell and enjoyed a cup of lukewarm coffee from my unmodified hot pot.

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John L. Orr writes from Mule Creek State Prison in Ione, California. One of the founding members of the incarcerated-run newspaper Mule Creek Post, Orr now serves as a features reporter.