In these hot, long, July days, the last thing I want to do is stand over a hot sink, Marigolds on hands, washing dishes. Mind you, the last thing I want to be doing on a cold, short January day is standing over a hot sink washing dishes. But unfortunately, washing dishes is almost as inevitable as the other 2 inevitables. Cooking always equals some sort of cleaning up, even at a picnic or a BBQ.
Washing dishes has become a ritual for me. A rite of passage to a much deserved clean kitchen. I enter almost a trance-like state, my own form of meditation, my anxieties washing away with each crumb, smear or stain to leave an ambient, serene space on the plate.
I enter the dishwashing meditation with a series of exercises. Stacking plates, collecting glasses, cleaning the sink. This follows by filling the basin with pure, hot, sudsy water and emersing all the glasses leaving them to soak, long enough for the water to cool down to a bearable temperature. With my yellow Marigolds on, I begin a fast tempo'd dance, picking up each glass, mug, bowl and plate quickly so as not to burn my hands. The action becomes blurry as I wipe, scrub and wash each and every utensil that has been in use that day. The dirtiest gets a long, relaxing bath, while the rest of the kitchen gets a once, twice or even a third time over.
Some say I'm obsessed, some say I have OCD, but one thing is for sure, if I didn't wash the dishes I wouldn't be able to cook. And then I would be lost...