When I bought my charming country cottage in the city several years ago I knew it needed modernizing. I soon replaced a pair of cumbersome, counterweighted garage doors with a sleek single door and an electric opener. I gutted the flamingo pink bathroom. And I considered installing a dishwasher.
For years I put off making that improvement.
When friends asked, “Are you ever going to get a dishwasher?” I responded with an exasperated homeowner’s frown, hoping to obtain their sympathy. I complained that my kitchen was too tiny; I simply couldn’t give up the cabinet space. The truth was, I didn’t mind doing dishes by hand. In fact, it was the one household chore I didn’t mind doing every day.
What could be satisfying about a sink full of dirty dishes and steaming suds? Maybe it’s in the doing – the mindless work of swishing the dishcloth over plates, bowls and silverware, knowing they are spotless. Tomorrow I will have meetings to attend, budget crises to resolve, and children who need reminding to change the cat litter.
But here in this little corner of the world, everything’s in order. Cups, saucers and pans are clean and put away. The countertops sparkle and the stovetop shines, thanks to lemon dishwashing liquid, hot water and my own muscle. All is well as I turn off the light and go to bed, pleased with a job well done.
Or maybe washing dishes by hand connects me to another time and place where dishwashers didn’t exist – my grandparents’ home in a small Nebraska farm town. Holidays meant a happy swirl of their twelve children, their spouses and an ever-increasing number of grandchildren. At my grandparents’ home, the kitchen was the heart and Grandma was its soul. It was where you usually found her, expertly turning out Thanksgiving dinners that included mountains of real mashed potatoes, giblet gravy and ended with homemade sour cream raisin pie.
Afterward the men gathered in the living room to watch football while my mother and her sisters, all seven of them, formed an assembly line that would have taught Henry Ford a thing or two about efficiency. They lined up to wash, rinse, dry and put away enough dishes to fill two dishwashers, finishing in half the time it would have taken just to complete the rinse cycle.
The sisters-in-law joined the group, too, and over the years we granddaughters were invited to help. Washing dishes marked a transition from childhood to womanhood. And there was no better place to celebrate the change than among my kin in Grandma’s kitchen.
I suspect there was a reason why my grandmother never insisted on installing a dishwasher in her kitchen, a reason that had nothing to do with tough times or conserving electricity. At the end of a big meal everyone was full and content. Babies began their naps, children went off to play, and the men either went back to work on the farm or to watch the current bowl game. For an hour or so, the women could just be girls. While drying and stacking plates together they giggled, sharing the funny things their children said and husbands did.
The first time I ever saw my grandmother laugh so hard she cried was while washing dishes. I’ve long forgotten the story that sent tears rolling down her crinkled cheeks, but I’ll always remember her joy at sharing the secret delight of women laughing together while doing “their” work, turning a task into a treasure of time.
A few months ago I finally broke down and installed a dishwasher. I had convinced myself that it would add to the resale value of my home, enhancing its overall appearance. I admit it has its benefits. For one, my son is much more willing to empty the dishwasher now than he was to wash, rinse, dry and put away the dishes after dinner.
But lately I’ve found myself filling the sink with hot sudsy water to wash cake pans, mixing bowls, skillets and other cookware too large to fit in the dishwasher…and then washing the rest of the dishes one by one. “Might as well wash my good knives by hand since the sink’s full,” I rationalize. “I really need to give this coffee mug a good scrubbing,” I say aloud to no one. I wash, I rinse, I dry alone, and for a brief time I am 16 again, stacking Corelle dinnerware with my adored grandmother in her kitchen.
For years I put off making that improvement.
When friends asked, “Are you ever going to get a dishwasher?” I responded with an exasperated homeowner’s frown, hoping to obtain their sympathy. I complained that my kitchen was too tiny; I simply couldn’t give up the cabinet space. The truth was, I didn’t mind doing dishes by hand. In fact, it was the one household chore I didn’t mind doing every day.
What could be satisfying about a sink full of dirty dishes and steaming suds? Maybe it’s in the doing – the mindless work of swishing the dishcloth over plates, bowls and silverware, knowing they are spotless. Tomorrow I will have meetings to attend, budget crises to resolve, and children who need reminding to change the cat litter.
But here in this little corner of the world, everything’s in order. Cups, saucers and pans are clean and put away. The countertops sparkle and the stovetop shines, thanks to lemon dishwashing liquid, hot water and my own muscle. All is well as I turn off the light and go to bed, pleased with a job well done.
Or maybe washing dishes by hand connects me to another time and place where dishwashers didn’t exist – my grandparents’ home in a small Nebraska farm town. Holidays meant a happy swirl of their twelve children, their spouses and an ever-increasing number of grandchildren. At my grandparents’ home, the kitchen was the heart and Grandma was its soul. It was where you usually found her, expertly turning out Thanksgiving dinners that included mountains of real mashed potatoes, giblet gravy and ended with homemade sour cream raisin pie.
Afterward the men gathered in the living room to watch football while my mother and her sisters, all seven of them, formed an assembly line that would have taught Henry Ford a thing or two about efficiency. They lined up to wash, rinse, dry and put away enough dishes to fill two dishwashers, finishing in half the time it would have taken just to complete the rinse cycle.
The sisters-in-law joined the group, too, and over the years we granddaughters were invited to help. Washing dishes marked a transition from childhood to womanhood. And there was no better place to celebrate the change than among my kin in Grandma’s kitchen.
I suspect there was a reason why my grandmother never insisted on installing a dishwasher in her kitchen, a reason that had nothing to do with tough times or conserving electricity. At the end of a big meal everyone was full and content. Babies began their naps, children went off to play, and the men either went back to work on the farm or to watch the current bowl game. For an hour or so, the women could just be girls. While drying and stacking plates together they giggled, sharing the funny things their children said and husbands did.
The first time I ever saw my grandmother laugh so hard she cried was while washing dishes. I’ve long forgotten the story that sent tears rolling down her crinkled cheeks, but I’ll always remember her joy at sharing the secret delight of women laughing together while doing “their” work, turning a task into a treasure of time.
A few months ago I finally broke down and installed a dishwasher. I had convinced myself that it would add to the resale value of my home, enhancing its overall appearance. I admit it has its benefits. For one, my son is much more willing to empty the dishwasher now than he was to wash, rinse, dry and put away the dishes after dinner.
But lately I’ve found myself filling the sink with hot sudsy water to wash cake pans, mixing bowls, skillets and other cookware too large to fit in the dishwasher…and then washing the rest of the dishes one by one. “Might as well wash my good knives by hand since the sink’s full,” I rationalize. “I really need to give this coffee mug a good scrubbing,” I say aloud to no one. I wash, I rinse, I dry alone, and for a brief time I am 16 again, stacking Corelle dinnerware with my adored grandmother in her kitchen.
1 comment:
Anne, this made me think of a wonderful time in my life when I did the dishes by hand. Thanks for taking me back there.
Marc
Post a Comment