Solace in Labor, WaterIt must be said: having a dishwasher makes a difference. I am still feeling out the corners of that convenient box by the sink; some things do well in it, and others do not (one mug took upon itself a toothsome jaunt one evening) but I am mostly to grips with that. That the pots and pans can disappear after a simple rinse, leaving clear counters and an empty sink, nearly makes me want to take a second look a serious French cookery again. The cheerful, heavy heat and the industrial strength sudsing that goes on in there to make the dishes so very clean is welcomed. It is convenient on some work nights, welcome to its task. It isn't even that loud, as they go.
And yet, I find I don't run it that much. If I have the time, I encounter myself at the sink after dinner, sleeves to elbows, chasing away the marks of the meal with a scrubber sponge and hot, hot water. Lately, I've been making the time. It is good work: the water heats the hands, and it is a pleasure to inspect the effort under the bright counter lights. It is a moment to relish when the drain board becomes a happy stack, right before the lights are shut on the way out of the kitchen, out through the house onto other things.
That, and I still get good ideas doing the dishes. I rarely get good ideas from the dishwasher.
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