At Riverside, the house with no drawers, our former residence, I used to spend an inordinate amount of time at the kitchen sink (apologies if I've gone on about this before). Because of the lack of bench space, and the single sink, it was necessary to wash dishes at the drop of a hat. And there were more hats being dropped there, than graduation day of the Upper Sixth.
Truly. I must've spent at least two hours a day, rubber gloved, armed with sponge, bubbles, a forced spirit of cheer and Wham!
And that was when there were just three of us.
But now, at the House at Porter Street, equipped with dishwasher as we are, there is FREEDOM. The unit is undeniably beige. It is also unarguably externally decrepit. But inside it SPARKLES. And functionally it is my very best friend.
We entertained yesterday. There were 11 of us. There was an abundance of food, a river of drink, and nothing other than the intense intent to feast and chat and catch up. Over the course of around five hours we made use of every plate, glass and utensil in the house. And do you know how we managed? The dishwasher, that's how. Loading and emptying. Three times loading and emptying. And not a beat skipped throughout.
At the end of the day, as the sun went down and we closed the door on old friends, made better friends by an afternoon of shared soul rubbing, I knew for sure that although I have declared at certain times in my life that I don't mind washing dishes by hand, I would much rather have a machine to do it, than not.
|Beautiful beautiful roses and daisies: the aftermath of a lovely day.|
(The fridge full of leftovers is not depicted.)
Thank you Al and Helen, Lauren and Lachie for visiting us all the way from the other side. And V, G, C and Pea, I think you may've crossed the river. I love you all.