Letting it Soak
The pile in the sink grows higher as the potatoes are mashed and the mushrooms sauteed. Bits of crispy pink ham cling to the sides of the roasting pan, juices swirling in fatty glory. Caramelized brown sugar solidifies into a sweet mortar on white ceramic, buttery crust crumbles into cinnamon covered apple slices.
We sit down to dinner and let the pots and pans and baking dishes sit on the counter in the kitchen. Cats wander in and out contemplating if they will be more successful in the abandoned kitchen or the noisy with silverware clanking wine glasses clinking mouths a-smacking dining room.
Pushing back from the table we sigh with satiety, eyelids grow heavy as we refill wine glasses and pull out board games and old stories over the remainder of the evening.
The dishes sit.
Guests leave, someone falls asleep on the couch.
The dishes sit.
Pots are filled with water and a squirt of soap.
"Let it soak," someone says. "We'll take care of it in the morning."
The house grows quiet save for the cats darting from bedroom to kitchen (maybe they'll lick the plates clean) to cleared dining room.
I wake up late but there are still snores emanating from the under the blankets on the couch in the living room. Dave Letterman interviews Ricky Gervais on low volume in the family room as my sister reads the paper and munches on a powder sugar covered cookie.
The dishes sit in the sink, the suds mere memories in the rainbowy grease.
"Let it soak some more," I tell myself as I silently cluck my tongue at my sister's obliviousness, then cluck at myself for clucking. Growing up in this house dishes were soaked, tongues bitten, frustration cultivated. If you ignore it long enough in the sink maybe the grime will dissolve on its own, maybe someone else will take care of the mess. There's always a better time to clean up, address the mess, mention the dilemma. Or you take it all on yourself and get to be the martyr.
I start to wash because in the years intervening I have changed. Or at least I recognize the problems with soaking. I don't want to let things macerate for days, staring at the grime, getting frustrated that no one else is taking care of it, or me taking care of it eventually with a tinge of resentment forming between soap bubbles.
Taking responsibility the sink empties, I speak my mind and defend my position, try to listen.
I get guilty praise and gilded glares, tension floods and ebbs and sometimes stagnates and sometimes I need to leave a few old dishes in the basin. At least for a little while.
Because with a little elbow grease and a deep breath or two, the sink doesn't have to fill up with dirty dishes no matter how long they've been soaking or how dirty they still may be.
We sit down to dinner and let the pots and pans and baking dishes sit on the counter in the kitchen. Cats wander in and out contemplating if they will be more successful in the abandoned kitchen or the noisy with silverware clanking wine glasses clinking mouths a-smacking dining room.
Pushing back from the table we sigh with satiety, eyelids grow heavy as we refill wine glasses and pull out board games and old stories over the remainder of the evening.
The dishes sit.
Guests leave, someone falls asleep on the couch.
The dishes sit.
Pots are filled with water and a squirt of soap.
"Let it soak," someone says. "We'll take care of it in the morning."
The house grows quiet save for the cats darting from bedroom to kitchen (maybe they'll lick the plates clean) to cleared dining room.
I wake up late but there are still snores emanating from the under the blankets on the couch in the living room. Dave Letterman interviews Ricky Gervais on low volume in the family room as my sister reads the paper and munches on a powder sugar covered cookie.
The dishes sit in the sink, the suds mere memories in the rainbowy grease.
"Let it soak some more," I tell myself as I silently cluck my tongue at my sister's obliviousness, then cluck at myself for clucking. Growing up in this house dishes were soaked, tongues bitten, frustration cultivated. If you ignore it long enough in the sink maybe the grime will dissolve on its own, maybe someone else will take care of the mess. There's always a better time to clean up, address the mess, mention the dilemma. Or you take it all on yourself and get to be the martyr.
I start to wash because in the years intervening I have changed. Or at least I recognize the problems with soaking. I don't want to let things macerate for days, staring at the grime, getting frustrated that no one else is taking care of it, or me taking care of it eventually with a tinge of resentment forming between soap bubbles.
Taking responsibility the sink empties, I speak my mind and defend my position, try to listen.
I get guilty praise and gilded glares, tension floods and ebbs and sometimes stagnates and sometimes I need to leave a few old dishes in the basin. At least for a little while.
Because with a little elbow grease and a deep breath or two, the sink doesn't have to fill up with dirty dishes no matter how long they've been soaking or how dirty they still may be.
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