Last night the dishwasher died. Its end was no surprise. It had a prolonged decline, wheezing and doing more poorly with each rinse until it gave up the ghost with a sound like it was exhaling its last breath and that’s all she wrote. Someone has the task of finding a new one. He’s good at things like this. He’ll read Consumer Reports and visit a few appliance stores and make a decision. I leave it up to him.

In the meanwhile, we have to do the dishes ourselves. Apart from the time it consumes, I don’t really mind. Truth be told washing the dishes is rather pleasant, probably because it involves hot water, which is always pleasing. My favorite job in life (so far) was washing dishes in a college sorority. It gave me great satisfaction to rinse off the dishes with a large industrial spray hose, shove the dishes into the metallic box, slam the door and out came the dishes. Like this fellow:

The kitchen air was saturated with steam and the smell of detergent. My skin complexion has never been better.

While I like doing dishes, Someone does a better job at it.  He also is better job at loading the dishwasher. We have this silent agreement I won’t load them anymore, as he merely has to rearrange them to ‘correct the mistakes’. He likes to use (instead of liquid detergent) a small cake which has a red half cherry in its centre. It looks like a hardened petit feur. I am allowed to put the dishes away, which makes life fair and balanced.

You would think living in an area with 115 degrees we would not lack for hot water. Our kitchen faucet takes a long time to ‘heat up’ which is a waste of water. We have a few items that require hand washing; I prefer to wash the teapots this way.

Nevertheless, I am eager for Someone to locate a new machine ASAP, for we are developing the bad habits of delaying the dishes ‘until there is enough’. This makes the kitchen area look sort of trashy.

Our hand towels are a hodgepodge; please don’t tell Martha.

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