Dirty Talk
Let’s talk about dishwashers.
I was born in the 1970s and until my parents moved us to the ‘burbs ten years later, I was the dishwasher (I’m sure my little sis would claim she also had a starring role in the dinnertime cleanup routine). It was pretty simple. Eat. Wash. Dry. Put away. Go outside and play.
When my parents built a house with their 1980s dream kitchen, the dishwasher became part of everyday life. I can recall one (or 85) “fights” with my mother as I rolled my eyes at the notion of washing the dishes before putting them in the dishwasher. Then there were the scuttles about whose turn it was to empty the dishwasher, or who forgot to put in the rinse aid, or—god forbid—who put the dirty cereal bowl in with the clean dishes. Oops, must have been me. I hated complying with that silly clean/dirty hand-painted magnet that I was supposed to flip based on the dishwasher’s status. In my mother’s defense, it was the ‘80s and country crafts were all the rage. In my defense, it was the ‘80s and I had bangs to tease. But I digress.
When I moved into my own apartment, a 1920s upper-level gem in the historic district of my Midwest town, I was once again the dishwasher. Same at my first house in the same city. The choice was easy. There was no dishwasher; I hand washed.
When I found myself encased in all things oh-la-la kitchen in my “I’ve achieved executive status” home in Las Vegas years later, I adopted a hybrid approach. Most days I hand-washed, but I also reserved the right to fire up my fabulous GE Profile dishwasher whenever my dirty little heart desired. After all, I needed to get the value out of my commercial kitchen.
Fast forward. When my husband and I decided to adopt urban living and took up residence in a “live work play” setting in Las Vegas, there wasn’t a question: we’d hand wash. To make life even more efficient, we’d only have enough plates, bowls and utensils for our use, or possibly to host a guest without making him or her eat off a Frisbee. It was easy. Simple. We carried on this routine in the subsequent high-rise studio apartments we rented, which came equipped with the swankest of swank dishwashers. Clever cats that we are, we decided our dishwasher would be the perfect place to store our shoes. (Think Rorschach inkblot test. Do you see a dishwasher or a shoe rack?)
The dishwasher-as-shoe-rack routine continued when we relocated to Chicago. When we gave away everything we owned sans a duffel bag of personal gear each and set out to live abroad, we didn’t have extra shoes or dishes to contend with, and we were too busy living life (and surviving) to concern ourselves with rinse aid. When we returned to the states, bought a teeny condo on the water and traded boots for flip flops, the dishwasher became our airtight hamper and the ideal spot to store a few tools. Sheer brilliance.
That brings me to our current pad (yes, we've moved a lot and tried it all), a 2,400-square-foot three-story home in the Midwest. (Yes it’s too big, shame on us). The centerpiece of the stunning kitchen is a GE Café dishwasher. Stainless steel, of course. The built-in dishwasher is “restaurant inspired” and retails for a grand. We have extra room in the house for shoe storage (though we now have fewer shoes than ever, ironic) and hey, we even have a grown-up washing machine where we stow our dirty clothes! This means the dishwasher has no role whatsoever in our lives. We’ve become so accustomed to and happy with the simple Thoreauvian act of washing and drying our few kitchen items that we’ve never even considered filling and running that bad boy of an appliance.
That said, I have peeked inside with the heated curiosity of a teenage boy stealing a glance at his dad’s Playboy collection.
When I open the dishwasher, a row of blue lights illuminate, begging me to choose among endless options. Do I want to delay the wash for up to 12 hours? Steam my plates? Select a custom wash zone? Use all 100 cleaning jets? Engage the bottle wash cycle? Oh THANK GOODNESS! There’s a reversing quad blade with an arm to save the day. Whew.
Maybe it’s my inner pioneer woman who finds all of this absurd. Maybe it’s several years as a self-made minimalist that finds it maddening. Perhaps it’s the practical Polly in me who sees the irony in the fact that my dishwasher handle gets in the way of me drying dishes next to the sink.
(Written at my counter, standing above said dishwasher – 2017)