So, let’s move away from things I love, to things I…well…hate’s a strong word. Let’s go with, view with distaste. That of course, would include housework in general, and doing dishes in particular.
I’m a dedicated slob, incapable of doing the most mundane task without tripping, spilling, or sloshing. I don’t think I’ve ever done dishes (even with a dishwasher) without looking like I took a fully-dressed, spot shower.
Today I tackled the stack of dishes resembling a Dr. Seuss construct on steroids. Plates tipped in sideways, bowls stacked every which way. Pots and pans…just don’t call the health department.
I began the drip and drain process. When I was a kid (pre-dishwasher), my mom usually washed and I had to dry. My brother was Male and so not expected to sully his hands. (Thank goodness times have changed!) I would drip and get the dishtowel all wet. Mom would tell me about her day, what the neighbors had said, or listen to my adolescent woes. She always listened sympathetically. I realize now, that try as I might, I was never quite as sympathetic with my own girls. We never had the woman’s ritual of cleaning up…because times have changed.
Years later, I remember my mom asking me in puzzlement how I got my casseroles so clean. I was impatient – after all, she had taught me. I didn’t realize that was one of the first signs of her oncoming dementia. I wish I had shown her again and again, if necessary, with the sympathy she always showed me.
I never clean a casserole now with remembering the bewildered look in her eyes, asking how to do such a simple chore.
A lot of water gets spilled when I wash the dishes.