I have a disdain for dishes, especially if they are still hanging around long after I’ve digested the meal. Yet all around me lie remnants of a meal — on the table, counters, floor and sink. All I want to do is get out of the day’s ‘work’ clothes and get into something comfortable and sit down too relax; yet the promise of another 45 minutes of clean-up lie ahead.
It’s a story that repeats itself every evening around 7 p.m., and it tends to haunt me even in my dreams (and, more often than not, well into the next day!). Time and time again, I relive the same scenarios . . .
The Morning After
I’m back from an early morning swim and in high gear to get showered and ready before the kids are around the table creating another huge pile of dirty dishes. I reach for the Stagg Pour-Over Kettle to fill with water for brewing coffee in my Chemex, and I find that I can’t even get to the faucet.
Brown water pools in stacks of bowls. The burnt and hardened edges of cheese and pasta from prior night’s lasagna dinner clings to the edges of my Denby oven dish, fruit flies scatter from a plate bearing remnants of our apple crisp dessert, and the smell of milk wafts up from a cup sitting precariously on the sink’s edge waiting to tumble into the liquid mess below.
I count to three before plunging my arm deep into the murky water to search for a sponge, all the while hoping I don’t run into anything too squishy, let alone a sharp knife that shouldn’t have been placed in the sink.
Ten precious minutes later, I’m filling the kettle with water, glance up at the clock, and feel the tension returning to my neck –undoing all the good that my morning swim brought to me. It’s nearly 7 o’clock and I wish I would have had the energy the night before to clean the finally dishes last evening, set the table so it was ready for kids to sit down for breakfast, and filled the pot of water for the coffee . . .
But instead, I sat dozing in a chair in front of the television trying to relax before making it to my bed.
The Morning After: Round 2
The last bite of Beef and Stout pie crust was scraped from the stew pot 90 minutes ago. My back aches from sitting in the uncomfortable wooden chairs we bought (and still haven’t replaced from 15 years ago).
I realize it’s late — the kids should have been in bed hours ago, but since they’re in the living room engrossed in playing Nintendo, I have sort of forgotten about them.
Several empty bottles of wine sit on the table, and I’m sure I am sure my lips have a ring of red wine caked on them. I’m dreaming of my pillow and will do anything to get there as soon as I can.
I declare, “That really was a great dinner,” one last time, as I rub my belly and follow up with, “I can barely move.” This, I’m hoping, is the clue for my husband to get on board with me to gently prod our guests to gather themselves, their offspring, and depart. I refuse to look at the clock; If I do, I will just begin to count how many hours of sleep I will get before I have to rise and head off to some early morning sporting event for the kids. There is no rest for the weary, no more room in my full belly, and absolutely no desire to do the dishes.
Five and a quarter hours later, I rise to make coffee, and replay The Morning After scenario again. This time around, the smell of last evening’s dinner mingling with the leftover wine in the glasses makes me a little queasy.
The Icebox
