I may love a good meal, but I do not love post-good-meal-clean-up. After yesterday’s rush to prepare five different dishes for our Sunday lunch, the kitchen looked like I’d cooked a meal for a hundred guests. It was such a mess, I actually felt bad for my dishwasher. Which is strange, since it is the dishwasher’s job to wash dishes. But there’s dishes….and then there’s dishes.
I sensed the dishwasher was equally taken aback, especially when he emerged from the kitchen. With my camera. Muttering something threatening like ‘I’m going to make a joiner [photograph] out of that!’
What can I say, in a moment he has surely regretted a thousand times over, we made an agreement nearly fifteen years ago that he would do the dishes and I would clean the bathrooms. Perhaps the portion of his brain that does math was suppressed from all the love he felt for me in those early days of matrimony. Because it doesn’t take a wunderkind to figure out that dishes need to be done at least once a day. And bathrooms….once a week. Unless of course you have three boy-children in which case they should be cleaned on an hourly basis.
So it’s fair to say I’ve lucked out with the dishwashing-professor. He endures hummus and guacamole stained dishes, my inability to line the baking tray when I’m making cheese nachos, my gravity-defying attempts at loading the dishwasher-machine, my propensity for using thrice as many dishes as necessary when cooking or baking. And when he walks through the door at 6.55pm, and I greet him with a bowl of salmon curry and instructions to go upstairs and monitor his boy-children while I crawl into a dark hole for a while….he removes his coat, grabs the bowl and walks in the direction of the screaming-baby-sound.
He’s not perfect, though. I mean, he didn’t even write ‘Happy Valentine’s Day’ on my Facebook Wall.