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Fun food-safety fact: At room temperature, E. coli 0157 survived for 34 days on stainless steel and only four hours on copper.

Think of that the next time you see a gleaming stainless-steel commercial kitchen. Or a stainless-steel toilet, for that matter.

Our water heater expired last Saturday. The thermocouple had failed.

We had a plumber replace the thermocouple. He pointed out numerous symptoms of a failing water heater, and began selling me a replacement, which he’d be able to install the next day.

“What about a tankless water heater?” I asked. They don’t store water, so there is no tank, so there is no risk of tank failure. The tank on a traditional water heater is the part that eventually fails, and cannot be replaced. US residents discard and replace six million water heaters annually due to tank failure… creating an enormous pile of jagged, rusting metal and an awesome breeding ground for mosquitoes — coming soon to a landfill near you.

“Tankless water heaters? They’re junk,” said the plumber in a tone that suggested a long-standing grudge. I guess he doesn’t sell tankless water heaters.

“They’re used all over Europe,” I said, thinking that in my experience Europeans tend to be way ahead of Americans in embracing environmentally-conscious technologies, like styrofoam-brick homes, solar power generation, and tiny high-mileage cars.

“Europe?!” he exclaimed in a tone that suggested a long-standing grudge. “They’re way behind us!” That hung in the air for a moment like a piece of day-old beef, beginning to stink, needing to be addressed soon. After a few seconds the plumber conceded lamely, “Well, maybe their cars are better.” And then he admitted he’d never been to Europe.

Later I asked him about anodes. Typical water heaters contain a metal rod whose only purpose is to corrode. This “anode” is there because something is going to corrode; you can’t have bare metal and water together for long without the metal going away. The anode is sacrificial by design; it rots away until it’s gone, and after that the tank will rust out. If you replace the anode before it gets used up, chances are excellent your water heater tank will last a long time, because it never has an opportunity to corrode. This is basic water-heater science, and it’s explained beautifully at WaterHeaterRescue.com… a website this plumber has obviously never seen.

“Replace the anode?!” he snorted. “That’s just theory.”

“That seems unlikely,” I didn’t say, “given that nearly every water heater that’s tall enough for an anode has one inside, if not two…”

“Look, it’s like carburetors,” he said. “In theory, the Quadrajet is the best carburetor in the world.”

“Because of the small primaries and big secondaries?” He’d mentioned the one internal-combustion engine piece I actually know something about. I used to own a Quadrajet; it was attached to my Camaro. For normal driving around, a Quadrajet uses its smaller, more fuel-efficient “primaries.” When the driver stomps on the gas pedal to pass someone, or when doing donuts in the high school parking lot, the fat “secondaries” open up and feed enormous quantities of gas to the engine.

“That’s right,” he agreed, on familiar and probably well-worn turf. “If the Quadrajet was really the best carburetor, then every car would have one. But they don’t.” I guess he was trying to prove that all theories are wrong. But in fact he was just proving that he knows as little about logic as he knows about water chemistry.

We found someone else to install a new water heater. He’s great — he doesn’t bullshit, and he charges less. The only downside is that he’s booked two weeks into the future. Go figure.

On New Year’s Eve we immersed ourselves in the four ancient magic elements: earth, air, fire, and water. I’m not sure that was the intention of the ritual, but as it turns out, having a bonfire on the beach during a storm will create exactly that sort of experience.

Our celebrity ex-neighbor, who has moved with his wife and chickens back to the big City, hosts a year-end celebration on the extreme western edge of San Francisco. We were invited, and instructed to bring wood scraps. We brought a bottle of wine too, because sometimes wood scraps don’t go well with the entree.

Dinner came in two parts, to ensure we were all sufficiently fortified for the physical challenge of standing around a fire waiting for midnight. Our friends made a pot of gumbo large enough to feed the entire population of the French Quarter. On a Friday. During Mardi Gras. It contained two kinds of meat, and I enjoyed them both (although in very small quantities).

But that was just the teaser, the amuse-bouche. The main course was still to come.

There was a pot of vegetarian beans nearly as big as the pot of gumbo. There was a plate of expertly sliced avocado. There was a bowl of fresh salsa. There was a stream of fish, sauteed with onions. There was a stack of hot, homemade tortillas. It was a fish-taco buffet. I never got out of line — I just kept eating, except when I was drinking, and even then I did ‘em both if nobody was looking at me. The meal was truly great.

Afterwards we carpooled to Ocean Beach. We’d collected our wood scraps and a few discarded Christmas trees and packed one car full of both. We lugged all the wood, the trees, coolers, and our overfed selves up the beach, in the dark, to a suitable spot, then dug a pit in the sand and built a fire.

Over the next few hours, time seemed to pass quickly. More friends joined, appearing out of the darkness, having satisfied other commitments elsewhere. We tended the fire, proposed toasts, told stories. A few hearty folks left the warmth of the fire to explore the beach, dimly illuminated by reflected city lights.

Just before midnight, the scattered droplets we’d been feeling became a steady drizzle. The wind picked up. Standing with my face to the fire, I didn’t notice the rain until I turned into it. The backs of my legs were cold and wet; the fronts, warm and dry. I backed up to the fire to even out the sensation, but my jeans started steaming. Hot, wet denim is scarcely more pleasant than cold, wet denim. I can’t recommend either, except on someone else’s legs, in which case I could pretty much go either way.

At midnight, we torched the pine trees. The resulting crackly fireball was as good a commemoration of the turning of the calendar as I’ve experienced.

We packed up and left a while later, having bequeathed the fire to a few hangers-on. Once in bed, I slept like a dead man, if that dead man had eaten 7 lbs. of fish tacos for dinner.

One of the party guests stayed up all night. I don’t think he ever sleeps.

I have a germ phobia. You may know this; I’ve written about it before, and before that, and even before that. And again even before I began publishing my stories online — as evidenced by an old travelogue email I sent to friends several years ago, which recalled:

I saw a poster recently that screamed in 72-point Futura Heavy Condensed, “The Ten Most Common Causes of Infection.” The picture showed a pair of hands. I was thinking that they should have airbrushed something grotesque at the end of each of the fingers, but I suppose it’s better to leave some things to the imagination.

Why go to all the trouble of maintaining a phobia? For one thing, I work at home, so I’m not as frequently exposed to the variety of pathogens that, say, you are. For a second thing, I once had a condensed germ-transmission experience, where I sat down (healthy) next to a sneezing classmate and, within two hours, began sneezing myself. Actually it may have been the other way around — maybe I was the sick one, and I infected the person I sat next to, which would explain why I chose to sit next to her after she’d refused to go out with me the previous weekend. Anyway, I digress.

Traveling always makes me mindful of germs, because airports are chock full of vermin. I’m referring to the people. I once saw a skycap rub his thumb across his front teeth, like he’d dropped his toothbrush but kept on brushing, and then reach out with the same hand (thumb glistening wet) to pick up a suitcase. So when my mother cautioned me to wear a mask during my upcoming flight, I had to agree that it was a good idea. I work hard to stay healthy, and unsusceptible to bad germs, but still, avoiding exposure seems wise.

A trip to the pharmacy yielded two safe-travel treasures: a seven-pack of High Filtration Efficiency Maxi-Masks and a box of 200 (!) alcohol swabs. Yes, a few years from now I won’t fly without a personal oxygen supply and a full-body condom.

Once seated on the airplane, I reached for a mask, but stopped short. People will stare at me, I thought. My brother reported the same struggle — he carried a mask during his flight, but didn’t wear it either. It sounds dumb, I know, but there I was, not wearing a mask. “Send me your infectious vapors,” I seemed to be saying, “I’d rather breathe them in than risk having you laugh at my mask.” I finally put the mask on after everyone was seated.

I made liberal use of the swabs. I had to: the reason there were so many in the box is that each swab was only two square inches in size, about enough to wipe three of the Ten Unholy Fingertips of Infection before disintegrating.

So, did it work? Did I get sick?

I very nearly did. I used the mask for about half the flight, and I kept my hands clean, and yet the next morning I awoke to an unpleasant creeping nausea that made me wonder if breakfast would stay down. I had hot flashes. I had cold flashes. If it hadn’t been for the diarrhea, I’d have thought I was going through menopause. Fortunately all the symptoms faded after 12 hours. It wasn’t the flu after all.

The problem, I believe, was not a lack of sanitary precautions. My precautions were just not designed to protect me from bad airport-concession sandwiches, an unexpected vector of infection. We ate one at SFO that was so saturated with tapénade that the anchovy and olive flavor even overpowered the taste of the plastic sandwich wrap. Next time, we’ll remember an old lesson and bring our own sandwiches.