On Doing Dishes

I'd like to announce that after nearly three months, our dishwasher has FINALLY been repaired. We have a dishwasher again!!

Once upon a time, there were no machinated dishwashers in the world. Plates, cups, utensils all got washed by strong, workworn hands in pails or tubs or sinks of soapy water, then dunked in scalding hot, clear rinse water, then dried, in a drying rack or with a towel by those same strong hands.

Once upon a time, that was all people knew.

How did we ever survive? Technological advancement is a beautiful thing.

And yet.

Here's the thing. I'm kind of sad about the end of the hand-washing I've been doing. I think I'm going to miss it.

It sounds crazy, but I've really been thinking a lot about this. (Doing anything by hand has that amazing effect-- you find that you ave more time to think.) When my dishwasher first broke down, I was SO ANNOYED. I wanted it fixed rightnow!! I rolled my eyes as I finally gave in to the fact that for a few days, at least, I'd have to reorganize my counter tops to accommodate a stack of dirty dishes on one side and a towel full of drying dishes on the other side. Annoying.

But after only a few short days, something in me shifted. It started with the odd little sense of self-satisfaction that I remembered how to "properly" wash dishes. Old bits of advice came back to me from the things my mother taught me... things her mother taught her.

Have a soapy water sink and a scalding hot rinse-water sink.

Wash the glasses and cups first... they are the least dirty and you always want to start with the lightest soil and end with the heavy soiled items like crusty pans.

Silverware is traditionally done second.

Then the plates and bowls and such.

End with the items that are the dirtiest, so that your dishwater stays as clean as possible til the very end.

It was almost like riding a bicycle--- it seems you never forget housekeeping advice from your mother. And I kind of liked that. It felt oddly satisfying to be doing something my own mother had done for years, and that HER mother had done for years. I found myself reflecting on my grandmother, who has been gone for quite some time now, as I carefully washed each load of dishes by hand. It tied me to my past... my history. I remembered my grandmother's aprons and brisk efficiency... Her strong hands. Not just once during this season of hand dishes... but nearly every time I filled the sink with soapy water. There I was, standing in place for the task ahead, connected.

Too, there is honestly something soothing and comforting about the task of washing dishes by hand.  It is a ritual of sorts--- repetitive, calming, a purposeful act meant to bring order out of disorder. The same dishes passing through, the same physical motions... the warmth, the water... There really is something about working with water that is incredibly, viscerally healing. Yes, I am CLEANING DISHES. But... I am also finding a rare span of time to truly be in the moment. I cannot multitask while my hands are full of soap and water and the next smudged glass in line for its bath. Instead, I can become almost meditative. Contemplative.

Oddly, too, I have found that I feel a stronger sense of ownership, both to the house and to the dishes I'm holding in my hands. There's just something about putting my hands upon things I own and love, paying careful attention to their care, that felt GOOD. My sweet yellow and aqua bowls from Anthropologie, the little glass tumblers with the mustaches etched into them, a gift from a friend... The casserole dish I got as a gift from my mother-in-law... The Kitchenaid beater we used to make cookies... I think it's been good to reclaim a sense of pride in the things we've lovingly collected to have in our home. To care for them by hand... For me to get my actual hands on the actual object and feel it go from dirty to clean. 



Another unexpected joy and benefit of this season of handwashing dishes: somehow, I began to notice that it drew my children near to me. Lucy, of course not being very mobile, was automatically plopped on her play quilt a few feet away from me, a couple of toys and books and (clean) utensils placed in her perimeter for her to play with. She was near to me on purpose. But Noah-- the wanderer, the kiddo unable to stay in one place for too long-- I think something in him began to realize that when the dishwashing started, I'd be stuck in that one spot for awhile, and if he wanted me to play with him, he'd need to come close and stick around. More than that, he didn't stay out of obligation and fuss at me to hurry up... He slowed down in his play, too. Often, he'd actually want to come help me, and I'd find myself side-by-side with my little man, him "helping" by dunking his action figures into the rinse water and making me help him act out the theater of a superhero world underwater.

Instead of my dish time becoming a frustrating time of isolation, me slaving away at a hated chore alone, it became, often, a social time. A time to talk... to laugh... to get our hands into the water together. A time for Noah to learn the same process that my mom taught me, and that her mother taught her. 

And so. After three months of all of this... Of slowing down... of being forced to do this one chore the old-fashioned way... Of finding that I was actually beginning to look forward to the task... I am now suddenly back in the world of the automated dishwasher. After three months where the repair company dodged phone calls and never seemed able to give a satisfactory answer as to when we'd have a working dishwasher again, one unexpected Saturday, there he was on our doorstep-- the elusive repairman, unannounced, ready to work. And just like that, we had a dishwasher again. 

It's a little bittersweet. And I know I'm crazy for even thinking back and sort of longing for an excuse to do hand dishes again. Of COURSE life is more efficient and smoother with a working dishwasher. 

But. 

I kind of think I'm not 100% done with the hand-dishes. You know, my view out the kitchen window isn't that great-- I get to stare at our neighbor's fence 3 feet away, and beyond that, their patio (if I'm lucky, perhaps even an awkward glimpse of the actual neighbors, strangers to us, coming out of their side door. Quick! Avoid eye contact!) But on the actual window pane is a sketch of a vase of flowers drawn by my Joe, a bouquet "given" to me by him one day over a year ago. I can see that in my view and it's enough for now. And I like the smell of the dish soap... the indirect light that comes in... the plants on the windowsill... I think I'll be coming back once in awhile to stand there and take care of the dishes the old-fashioned way. Call me crazy---I just know it has been, and will continue to be, good for my soul. 

One last thing--- as I was in the middle of pondering all of this, serendipity cracked the universe open a bit and I came across this passage in the very book I was reading at the same time, a lovely memoir by Katrina Kennison, writing about a time in her life filled with profound change and redefining of self and home:

"A long time ago, when I first began to imagine a different kind of life in a different kind of place, I bought an old-fashioned dish-drainer at a flea market, made of heavy dark wire, with a removable trough for silverware. There was no place for this relic on my efficient suburban countertop, so I stashed it on a basement shelf, in the hope that someday somewhere, it might prove useful. To me, that dish drainer seemed to symbolize simplicity, a gentler pace, the kind of home I aspired to. I imagined a simple kitchen, a farm sink full of soapy water, a view from the window that would lift my heart, and time enough to just stand there, fingers softening into wrinkles, slowly swirling a sponge across a china plate."

-The Gift of an Ordinary Day, pgs.187-188

I still believe in a farm sink in a farmhouse of my own one day. So maybe I'm finding a piece of my authentic self in this simple, age-old act. And I am glad for the realization of that. I don't pretend that many people reading this will find a kinship in my strange love of hand dishes... But maybe we can agree, simply, that anything that reminds us to slow down and find the present moment is a powerfully wonderful thing.