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Illustration by Marley Allen-Ash
It’s easy to know if the plate I’m washing is my grandfather’s – it will have no food remnants. He grew up practically licking his plate clean and still does it at almost 90 years of age. My younger brother is the exact opposite; he’ll leave anything he doesn’t like on his plate by complaining that it either tasted funny or was too spicy. The feel of warm water and the slipperiness of dish soap on dinner plates are my refuge at the end of the day.
About a year ago, my mother turned on the dishwasher and went to the airport to drop off my father who was headed overseas on a work trip. By the time she got back, there was water all over the kitchen floor. My mother did not appreciate it when I told her that the dishwasher had decided to die just as my father was leaving the country to help her build character and learn to be independent. After frantic calls to find a repairman, his verdict was that the dishwasher would have to be replaced. A new one was ordered but it would not arrive for over a month. As penance for my cheekiness, I offered to take on the task of washing dishes by hand after dinner.
The downside to offering to do the right thing is that it never feels right once the smiles and love evoked by the offer disappear. I was now faced with a mound of thankless dishes in the sink, quietly judging me, urging me to get on with it and deliver on my promise.
Initially, I was annoyed and irritable when I did the dishes. I was in a rush to be done with them since I had an endless list of things to finish as a then sophomore in high school taking a tough course load. Corny as it sounds, the task of scraping and washing food residue off stoneware and metal soon caused a saintly transformation in me. For about 15 minutes every day, I realized that I could slow down time and forget everything in the world as my mind, eyes and hands focused on a simple task that would always result in success.
We did finally get the new dishwasher installed. However, I continued to wash dishes by hand after dinner, perplexing my mother immensely.
I always start with the dinner plates. I have learned to turn them over and wash the bottom which, at times, will have dried-up food. Then I move to any bowls that have been used. I have learned to recognize the one slightly mismatched bowl in our stoneware set that came over when my grandmother brought something in it and it took up residence with our crockery. After the bowls, I turn my attention to the dishes used to cook and serve. There’s the wooden ladle with a groove at the back that my father prefers to use. And the stainless steel saucepan that my mother uses to make soups and stews. Any food on the outside of the saucepan burns and attaches itself stubbornly, requiring the use of an abrasive powder called Bar Keeper’s Friend, which is now my friend, too. My final task is the flatware. There’s one fork with a pair of tines that have been pushed apart – the gap toothed fork. When we eat Indian food with our fingers, I don’t have any flatware to clean. After all the dishes have been washed and stacked, I get the satisfaction of turning on the garbage disposal motor and watching food particles and dish water noisily disappear, gulped down by a vortex. A good quick rinse of the sink and I’m ready for the next Sisyphean iteration after tomorrow’s dinner.
Washing dishes by hand, standing in the same spot every day, has been more cathartic and educational than I could have ever imagined. I’m running around stressed most of the day. There are homework assignments, projects, quizzes and tests vying for my attention and time. When I update my to-do list at the end of the school day, I’m filled with dread at what’s left to be done. I’ve caged myself in a prison of my ambitions and expectations, cut off from many aspects of the world.
However, standing at the same spot every day in front of the kitchen window washing dishes has allowed me to recover some of it. All summer, I watched a butternut squash vine slowly take over the yard outside the kitchen window and produce fruit hidden under large leaves. In fall, the weather caused the leaves to wilt and exposed the fully grown, curvaceous, orange squashes. In winter, the yard light revealed the brown scrub. Green is now peeping out again in spring. My mind has taken snapshots of this changing view and meditated on the passage of time in this sliver of the universe in front of me.
The tactile meditation of washing dishes taught me to think of the completion of a task as the ultimate reward, not praise or a prize. Now I’m able to tune out deadlines and sink myself more wholeheartedly into enjoying the mundane-ness of the task.
Neelan Krishna lives in Dallas.