I Love To Wash
I hate doing the dishes!
This is what I told myself in anticipation of the mornings after the Christmas and New Year's eve parties I hosted at home. True enough, the reality of the nightmarish pile of majorly used pots, pans and china cabinet items (not to mention the grease and grime I had to scrub off the stove top) was scary because washing dishes is not my forte. As a matter of fact, I hate it with passion.
Necessity brought about by vacationing household help had one thing to teach or two: 1) wearing un-ironed jeans made me the only one aware that they were not ironed. 2) I actually survived washing the dishes.
My mania for soft and clean smelling hands is as much as my aversion to dirtying them, but this did not at all appeal to the spirit of compassion in my two daughters. They, who were perpetually comatose in their pajamas the few times they were home during the long Christmas break, were oblivious to the suffering of their own poor mother. WOW! I felt like Cinderella with her lazy wicked stepsisters. Still, I hated the spectre of disorder more than the feel and smell of grease on my hands, so I set out to do the dreaded task, alone, and without gloves. Uggh.
There is a nice, tactile feel, I found, to running water slowly eroding stuck up grease, sauce and icing (think cream cheese, marinara sauce and chocolate frosting) that eventually reveal the smooth and glassy texture of china. Then it gets better as the magical suds clean up, then turn them feeling slithery and vulnerable. This I began to realize after a prolonged, repetitious exercise of scrubbing, sudsing, swishing and turning my many many washables.
The strong, cold feel of hard metal, sparkling and smelling lemony fresh and clean after the last rinse, took on a new meaning to me. I must have washed flatware, pots and pans good for a week's use each time and I didn't flinch. It was like my fairy godmothers were smiling at me, goading me on, telling me 'you go girl!'
Necessity brought about by vacationing household help had a few things to teach this girl, the most remarkable being that washing dishes, when done repeatedly and in massive volumes, ultimately ends up as an OC (obsessive compulsive) habit. Ask my husband and kids. Now, they wonder why I spend excessive amounts of time around the kitchen sink whenever I am home. Hah, so, you said dirty dishes? I tell you, bring them on!
Filed Under: Mania
This is what I told myself in anticipation of the mornings after the Christmas and New Year's eve parties I hosted at home. True enough, the reality of the nightmarish pile of majorly used pots, pans and china cabinet items (not to mention the grease and grime I had to scrub off the stove top) was scary because washing dishes is not my forte. As a matter of fact, I hate it with passion.
Necessity brought about by vacationing household help had one thing to teach or two: 1) wearing un-ironed jeans made me the only one aware that they were not ironed. 2) I actually survived washing the dishes.
My mania for soft and clean smelling hands is as much as my aversion to dirtying them, but this did not at all appeal to the spirit of compassion in my two daughters. They, who were perpetually comatose in their pajamas the few times they were home during the long Christmas break, were oblivious to the suffering of their own poor mother. WOW! I felt like Cinderella with her lazy wicked stepsisters. Still, I hated the spectre of disorder more than the feel and smell of grease on my hands, so I set out to do the dreaded task, alone, and without gloves. Uggh.
There is a nice, tactile feel, I found, to running water slowly eroding stuck up grease, sauce and icing (think cream cheese, marinara sauce and chocolate frosting) that eventually reveal the smooth and glassy texture of china. Then it gets better as the magical suds clean up, then turn them feeling slithery and vulnerable. This I began to realize after a prolonged, repetitious exercise of scrubbing, sudsing, swishing and turning my many many washables.
The strong, cold feel of hard metal, sparkling and smelling lemony fresh and clean after the last rinse, took on a new meaning to me. I must have washed flatware, pots and pans good for a week's use each time and I didn't flinch. It was like my fairy godmothers were smiling at me, goading me on, telling me 'you go girl!'
Necessity brought about by vacationing household help had a few things to teach this girl, the most remarkable being that washing dishes, when done repeatedly and in massive volumes, ultimately ends up as an OC (obsessive compulsive) habit. Ask my husband and kids. Now, they wonder why I spend excessive amounts of time around the kitchen sink whenever I am home. Hah, so, you said dirty dishes? I tell you, bring them on!
Filed Under: Mania
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