At this moment I am rummaging through the fridge for snacks that require non-dishwasher-safe tableware. I’m not hungry. I just want to do dishes.
Gage has two grandmothers who go by the same name. There’s Granna who likes to perch Gage on a stool in her kitchen as she giddily flitters from counter to stove to refrigerator and back for hours creating delicious vittles to satiate the hunger she swears exists despite his wide eyed horror and the hand clamped over his mouth as he shakes his head slothily from side to side. Thick slabs of sticky bacon, lard-embellished biscuits, the equivalent of a stick of butter strangely calling to mind the taste of fresh baked cookies, cheesy potatoes – everything listed on the Cardiologists of America’s watch list plus a few things they can’t even fathom exist. Think state fair fare. At the end of this gorge-fest, she efficiently stows the troughs and power tools in the dishwasher and swipes the counters clean.
Then there’s Granna who avoids Mommy and Daddy’s kitchen at all costs. Granted she makes the customary biscuits, apples, and bacon breakfast to earn her room and board, but in comparison to the frenzied glee observed in her own kitchen, her performance in our kitchen is a bit deflated. And you know what? That’s really okay. I will be the first to say that there is not a person on God’s green earth who can hold a ladle to my mom’s epicurean expertise, and my husband would serve me right up as the sacrificial lamb for a strip of her bacon. We just prefer to indulge at her house.
My mom recently told my sister and my sister told me – because that’s what we do in our family…confide in one another and turn around to tell the other…not to get into anyone’s business…just to “give you a heads-up”…”You know Daddy says he hated the gift you gave him. I’m not telling you to hurt your feelings. I just thought that might be helpful information the next time you decide to ‘bake him a cake’” – that our house makes her nervous because of all the rules. Duly noted.
We don’t have a list of rules and regulations per se, but I admit that we are a bit particular. Yes, I said “we.” Lest you believe I’m the only tightly wound critter in this house, meet my husband, Mr. Closet arranged in descending color spectrum - light switches must be in uniform position before leaving a room - dishwasher must be rearranged prior to running - not all dishes belong in the dishwasher husband of mine.
Margaret Wise Brown puts it best in her description of Scuppers the Sailor Dog:
In his ship, Scuppers had a little room. In his room Scuppers had
a hook for his hat and a hook for his rope and a hook for his
handkerchief and a hook for his pants and a hook for his spyglass
and a place for his shoes and a bunk for a bed to put himself in.
At night Scuppers threw the anchor into the sea, and he went down
to his little room. He put his hat on the hook for his hat, and his
rope on the hook for his rope, and his pants on the hook for his
pants, and his spyglass on the hook for his spyglass, and he put
his shoes under the bed and got into his bed, which was a bunk, and
went to sleep.
A place for everything, and everything in its place. And not just any place; the appropriate place. I am deeply indebted to the inventors of such wonders of logic as the little cubby under my steering column that was made solely for the purpose of snuggling my owner’s manual ever so gently and making it a snap to locate in an emergency. Oh, and the guitar case. A case that is shaped just like its contents. Brilliant! You never have to waste time wondering “now where shall I store my guitar?” or “now where did that guitar get to? I can’t remember which box I stuck it in!” I can honestly say that I have likely contributed to the salary of many an employee at the various container stores I have frequented over the years.
After eight years of cohabitation, I have finally mastered the fine art of dishwasher etiquette according to Mr. Rogers - Shane not Fred, though they both have an affinity for shoes. Only dishes, glasses, everyday flatware, butter knives, and my as-seen-on-TV Ginsu knives (i.e., kitchen tools of rapid amputation) are welcome in the dishwasher. In addition to the grown-up knives, pots, pans, wine glasses, Tupperware, plastic cups, cutting boards, and cooking utensils are also registered on the national Do Not Machine Wash list. For the love of God, why do we even have a dishwasher!
Still, because I am vaguely aware that proper attention to dishwashing was finagled into our vows somewhere, I follow orders. I am a woman of my word. We also vowed to simply leave the army of dishwasher averse items on a towel next to the sink to dry until God sends us a miraculous vessel designed for such a task as this.
Enter the candy apple red Kitchenaid Dish Dryer Rack. 6.8 pounds of “heavy duty wire and rugged plastic. Angled drainboard keeps countertops clean. Soft, nonslip feet protect surfaces. The detachable flatware caddy attaches to either side of the dish rack.” A caddy! Just for flatware! EITHER SIDE!!!! Jesus does love me! The meek and the mildy obsessed shall inherit the earth. Let’s just hope by “earth” he means a sanitized, organized parallel universe closely resembling earth.
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