On Dirty Dishes, Clean Kitchens, and the Campfire Girls

My dishwasher is broken again. Third time in two months. As frustrating as that is, it got me to thinking about washing dishes as I stood there unloading dirty glasses from the top rack.

We did it...a lot...when I was a kid. My parents had a dishwasher most of the time, but there was a period of what seems like a couple of years, though I'm sure it wasn't that long, when the dishwasher was broken and for whatever reason, it wasn't fixed or replaced. Those seemed like years of misery and pickled fingers and long hours in front of the night-darkend kitchen window, up to our elbows in bubbles.

Even in the good years, when the dishwasher worked, we always had a boatload of dishes to finish by hand. My mom never fixed less than a meat, a starch, a couple of vegetables, and a salad. There were at least three or four pans on the stove each night to scrape and scrub. And God forbid we serve from those pans. Oh no. Mom rarely, if ever, served off the stove. Every night, the food was spooned out into Corning Ware bowls to place on the table to be passed around. So not only did we have the three or four pots, we had the three or four serving bowls that held the food that was once in those pots. Meanwhile, those nearly empty pots sat on the still-warm burners while the food clinging to their insides dried hard to bottoms. We must have had stock in the Brillo company.

So after supper, my sisters and I would begin the transfer of the leftovers to yet another dish to put in the refrigerator where it would sit for 4 or 5 days before we'd finally throw it in the garbage. (I don't think Mom had it in her to throw away perfectly good food, but that's another story!) We'd scrape the sides and tap the spoon and put the dirty porcelain on the counter next to the sink to be rinsed and loaded. What didn't fit in the dishwasher had to be washed by hand. That was my favorite job.

There was a science to washing dishes, and I had it down. First, I'd put a little soap in the sink, and then run some hot water about 1/4 of the way full. Then I'd put any silverware in the bottom of the sink to soak. Next I'd wash any glasses or mugs that didn't fit in the top rack. Wash the silverware. Drain the water. And start again with the serving bowls and pots. I was always in a secret race to keep up with whoever was drying, trying to keep a dish or two up on them so that they never had to wait for me to finish washing something.

Often as my sisters and I would help in the kitchen, we would break into song. Camp songs mostly. "Sipping Cider" and "Moonlight Bay" and "There Once Was a Farmer." We did it so frequently that one of my sister's boyfriends started calling us the Campfire Girls. It drove him a little bit crazy in a nice kind of way. We'd start, and he'd roll his eyes and say, "Here come the Campfire Girls!" and then go join my dad in the family room. Sometimes we'd sing even after the dishes were washed and put away, standing in the kitchen together while it rained outside or snowed, singing the songs of our childhood.

Mom never went to bed without the dishes washed, the floor swept, and the counters wiped down. She hated to wake up to a messy kitchen. It drove me crazy, and I often tried to skate around one of those chores. I usually got caught and had to do it anyway. I'll say that I'm not as adverse to a messy kitchen as she was, and I often go to bed hoping for the Dish Fairy to come at night (sometimes he does!), but I'll admit, a clean kitchen is much nicer to wake up to.

There is something unique to washing dishes and cleaning the proverbial heart of the home. I used to dread it on holidays when there would be so many dishes that you couldn't see the counter. I'd make myself scarce with my cousins while Mom and her sisters washed and cleaned and the men sat in front of the tv and dozed. As I got older, however, I HAD to help. It started with clearing the tables and then moved up to actual washing and drying. I often got stuck with the putting away, which I hated, but because it was my house, I knew where things went. We'd sweep the floor and shake the tablecloths and wipe down the counters. My aunts never left our kitchen a mess. Never. It just wasn't done no matter how much Mom would protest. Even the centerpiece would be back on the table at the end of the night. Job well done.

One day, I was surprised to find myself looking forward to this time in the kitchen with my mom and my aunts and my older girl cousins. It was kind of like moving to the grown-up table. I got to hear the gossip and stories and memories of my family. I heard recipes and kitchen tips and learned how to make gravy without lumps. I knew I had made it when I was allowed to wash the good china, and the crystal glasses, and Great-Grandma's cake stand.

The last time I washed dishes like this with my mom was the Easter before she died. She had been in decline for several months, and didn't feel like having a big dinner for everyone, but she did it anyway. After dinner, Mom started to help clean up, but I remember sending her to the family room while my sisters and aunts and cousins washed and dried and put away. It was odd without her in there directing us all, but she didn't feel well, and we all knew what to do.

Had I known it was going to be her last big dish washing, kitchen cleaning evening, I would have insisted she remain with us and just sit at the kitchen table if nothing else. But I didn't and she didn't and so it goes.

Today, I wouldn't trade my dishwasher for anything, but I wouldn't trade my memories of washing dishes either. As I stood there today, up to my elbows in bubbles, I sang "Moonlight Bay" to myself, all the while praying that Thursday's repairman would hurry up and get here.