When I was young, I hated doing the dishes more than anything. I would negotiate, feign illness, resort to violence and little sister abuse to get out of it. I was convinced that my mom purposefully sullied ever dish in the house, especially on meatloaf night. Even after I set them to soak for twenty minutes while I cleared the table, transferred the leftovers into our warped Tupperware and scrubbed down the plastic tablecloth and marbled vinyl countertops, the sticky red leavings clung to the plates and silverware like plumber’s caulk. I would be forced to repeatedly empty the dishpan and scoop the grey hamburger curds and cooked onion from the drain, flinging them with more force than was necessary into the overflowing garbage can. Half of the goop would inevitably slid down a slip of tinfoil and land on the hand-tied rug mom had picked up at a garage sale and placed proudly in front of the stove. I am embarrassed to admit that I once put the heel of my shoe down firmly on the slippery mess, grinding an oily spot into the heart-shaped design, before turning back to the grease-slicked sink to run the water. Again.
So when we walked in to view a flat a few days after we'd arrived in Scotland (could it be almost 2 years ago? Surely not!) I saw that it had a sleek new dishwasher and said, We'll Take It. Having never in my life enjoyed the modern convenience of squeaky clean dishes at the push of a button, the sweet silver appliance quickly grew to be my favorite feature of Scottish life. And when Gusser arrived, I wasn't sure how anyone on earth survived without immediately sterilized baby utensils. There is NOTHING like the comforting hum of a dishwasher on a rainy day. It makes me happy just thinking about it.
Cut to two months ago, when I called Belinda at UAF Faculty Housing to ask if, by any chance, the house we'd been assigned might possibly have a dishwasher. Um, no. In fact, Belinda actually laughed at me. We were extremely lucky that the 25 year old washer and dryer in the basement was still in (halfway) working order.
Of course, I was NOT looking forward to, once again, being on dishwashing duty. Especially since the 3rd member of our family has seemed to double (nay, triple) our daily wiping up, laundry and 401-9 needs. And that was before he discovered how fun it is to throw food on the floor. But I have to say, washing the dishes has taken on a whole new meaning for me. There is something extremely cathartic (now) about rendering a sink full of mess into a steaming, tightly packed little pile in the dish rack. With Gus joyfully beating a pot with a wooden spoon, I can stand in relative peace, getting a mini-steam bath and sponging our crockery while thinking of that scene in The Sword in the Stone where Merlin magics the dishes to wash themselves. It pushes all of my instant-gratification-neat-and-(mostly)clean buttons. Maybe it has something to do with finally feeling settled in a place that feels like home?
Standing at the many sinks of my life up to now, rote chores like dishwashing seemed compelled, plodding, a vexing necessity. One of Sam's favorite jokes to drop at a dinner party is, "You need any help with the dishes? 'Cause Christie's not doing anything." (In my sweet Sam's defense, he has become a fabulous dishwasher, almost always shouldering the clean-up if I cook). And though I've had some pretty defining experiences, never before have I felt quite so grown up as when I'm suds-soaked, in my house, among my things, pondering the set of circumstances that bring me to that spot (and yes, I have a garage-sale-salvaged-hand-tied rug adorning MY kitchen). I guess you come to a point in your life when you realize that someday has actually happened. You are in it. You have arrived.
And that realization has made the trip North feel, suddenly, worth it.
My new dreaded domestic activity: floors.
After spending 2 years living on the rugged coast of Northeastern Scotland, a job now takes us to Fairbanks Alaska. Originally from Oregon, I am a writer, a mother, an aspiring frontier woman, a nostalgia junkie, and a book addict. I call myself a trailer wife, which refers to the state of a person (most often a woman) who is caught up in the professional trajectory of their spouse. This blog will chronicle my journey between two places I never, ever, imagined I'd call home.
When I was young, I hated doing the dishes more than anything. I would negotiate, feign illness, resort to violence and little sister abuse to get out of it. I was convinced that my mom purposefully sullied ever dish in the house, especially on meatloaf night. Even after I set them to soak for twenty minutes while I cleared the table, transferred the leftovers into our warped Tupperware and scrubbed down the plastic tablecloth and marbled vinyl countertops, the sticky red leavings clung to the plates and silverware like plumber’s caulk. I would be forced to repeatedly empty the dishpan and scoop the grey hamburger curds and cooked onion from the drain, flinging them with more force than was necessary into the overflowing garbage can. Half of the goop would inevitably slid down a slip of tinfoil and land on the hand-tied rug mom had picked up at a garage sale and placed proudly in front of the stove. I am embarrassed to admit that I once put the heel of my shoe down firmly on the slippery mess, grinding an oily spot into the heart-shaped design, before turning back to the grease-slicked sink to run the water. Again.
1 comments:
The answer, in my mind, is the fact Sam does his share of the dishes when you cook. To me, that is a beautiful thing. When we lived in Aberdeen, Gav did the dishes for months straight once Harrison had arrived. Having a husband who does the dishes is, to me, a very beautiful thing.......... : ) x
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