“Do the dishes,” every day! - Denise M. Ford

“It doesn’t have a dishwasher, so we’ll have to wash our dishes every day,” my son pointed out as he and his fiancée showed me their new home. 

Flashbacks of dish duty in kitchens through the years spun through my mind, each one emphasized by a slap of a dishtowel as it hit my shoulder. Snapping, swiping, slinging towels swished through my memory with a soundtrack looping through country, Broadway, and camping songs.  Giggles, downright disgusting noises, shouts of frustration, belting choruses of choir songs, rounds discordantly mixed up sending my sister and I into various stages of soppy soapsuds battles during our supposedly simple task of dishwashing. 

“Sometimes you can create fun memories as you wash dishes together,” I silently smiled to myself.

Still in the throes of rapid recollections revolving into my conscious, I leaned against the sink counter remembering how I’d squish my towel towards the water puddles that always gathered and threatened to overflow onto the floor.  I turned to follow along on the tour of the soon-to-be newlywed home, as my fingers searched on my shirt for the faint memory of a damp spot on a well-worn apron conjured from the afternoons I would spend with my Nana cleaning up after family gatherings.   Even with the protection of one of her aprons, I often thought I would fall into her low, deep, double sink as I sopped up splashes while assisting her in the time-old tradition of “doing the dishes.”

Why has my mind wondered into the odd realm of dishwashing as I ponder setting goals for my writing?  Perhaps it is because this mundane task represents how I should set priorities.  Dishes need to be cleaned or cabinets and drawers will become barren of necessary utensils. Regardless of whether I use a keyboard or a manual pen and paper, I need to daily attend to the writing task if I wish to prepare for the next time the ideas gather for a period of “dining and delighting.”

Aligning “doing the dishes” with writing reaffirms that it is a continual process, repeating itself over and over again, not because it is something I hope to do, but because it is something I need to do.  Finding the suitable place setting for the venue at hand becomes my writer’s challenge.

At any rate, I am looking forward to delving into the dishes that line my shelves, clutter up my counters, and threaten to fall to the floor.  Mind you I’m muddling up the metaphors on purpose so that I remind myself that writing can be as much fun as “doing the dishes.”  Snap those ideas and sling around those memories; soak hands into the muck and grease, slop around until the squeaky clean shine makes its appearance.  Lean forward without fear of toppling but definitely enough to get wet. 

“Do the dishes,” every day.

To read Denise's personal blog and writing website go to:   www.WalkingWithDustyandDee.com

Clouds, Grease, and Bits of Orange — Lynda Schultz

This is not my story, but arises out of the conversation between two friends of mine. She really does need a dishwasher.


“I’d really like a dishwasher.”

We were discussing the move into our new apartment. When we’d done the walk through with the real estate agent I noticed that there was a space under one of the kitchen counters that seemed like it was just made for a dishwasher.

I planted the idea with my husband, though I should have known better. His response was predictable.

“No, no. We don’t need a dishwasher. I always thought it was foolish to have a dishwasher. Every person I know who has one ends up washing their dishes before they put them in the thing. Seems silly to me to wash them twice. All you have to do is take a little extra care to make sure that you clean them right the first time.”

I sighed. It seemed as though we had had this conversation before. I always lost, or gave up; overwhelmed by the tidal wave of verbiage he is so gifted with.

“Besides, there’s the electricity it uses.”

Then it was back to the double washing.

“And you know what happens if you don’t get all the junk off before you put the dishes in the thing. Those traps are really small, and they get easily clogged. The next thing you know the water can’t escape. You open the door and out comes all the water all over the floor.”

I nodded my head. Okay, I get the message.

“Then there’s the bill to repair the thing.”

He finally noticed my facial expression.

“But you know, I do anything for you. If you really want a dishwasher, then it’s a dishwasher we’ll get.”

He was trying and I appreciated it. However, we both knew where this argument was going and what the conclusion would be.

“Honey, you really don’t need one, you know. I’ll do all the dishes. You won’t have to worry about them ever again, I promise. I already do my own after breakfast, right?”

“Yes, that’s true, dear,” I said, gamely. He had been doing his own breakfast dishes for a while now in an effort to be a husband more aware of his wife’s needs. I didn’t want to discourage him.

He nodded, satisfied that his point had been made, and then took off down the hall as I cleared the kitchen table of my cereal bowl and coffee cup.

I turned toward the sink and picked up the first of the breakfast dishes already stacked in the rack. I examined each one, putting aside the still cloudy glasses, the frying pan with grease still stuck to its side, the pieces of the juicer to which bits of orange still clung. As I washed—for the second time—the dishes he had so “carefully” done after his early morning breakfast, I breathed a prayer:

“Lord, bless him, but I’d still like a dishwasher.”

There is no man so deceived as he who, being blind, thinks that he can see.