Bad Home Cooking

All by hand

I don't believe in dishwashers.

I don't like them. I don't use them. Even when I have one -- and I usually do, since rare is the rental without a dishwasher to sweeten the deal -- I don't avail myself.

Why not? Because dishwashers annoy me and always have. If I have to rinse off a dish enough to put into a dishwasher, I might as well take the extra 20 seconds and wash the thing, right? I know what happens when you don't rinse well enough: The dishes pulled from my mother's old dishwasher routinely came out dingy and half-washed, compelling me to wash them once again with a sponge and hot soapy water. What's the point of that? I never fathomed.

I have not used a dishwasher since moving out on my own at 18, which was back when Michael Jackson really was the King of Pop. At this point my bias against them have internalized, and I am unlikely to be swayed. 

You can really throw a person when you decline to use the dishwasher. They will stand blinking at you with their mouths open. They can hardly grasp it. You don't want to use a dishwasher? You can get the same look when you admit to not having (or desiring) cable TV, too, but less so. There's a certain sub-genre of people who decline to get cable, but these same people will always have a dishwasher.

People get annoyed at me. They try to sell the dishwasher concept.

The new models are so much more efficient, they argue. They don't require that you rinse off the dish so thoroughly before putting them in the rack. They sanitize the dishes better. They save water AND time, they insist.

But they don't.

I say that there is a way to wash dishes that is quicker and more efficient -- not to mention vastly more pleasant -- than any dishwasher. I can wash, dry and put away an entire dinner party's worth of dishes in the time it takes you to unload a dishwasher's first capacity cycle.

But it's a lost art. Two generations of dishwasher-users have rendered most people under 60 ignorant of the ways of the hand wash. And this is unfortunate.

Washing up after dinner is like the warm-down of a workout, the shavasana of a meal. There is quiet. There is industry. And also time for reflection if you desire. You can't twitter when you're washing the dishes. You can't check your email. You might choose to listen to your kitchen iPod, but you could also try having a conversation with your dish-dryer (hand washing is always most satisfying in groups of two or more).

Collect the dishes at the end of the meal. Scrape. Stack. Fill one side of your sink with hot, soapy water, the other with clear, hot water. Methodically wash, rinse, and stack in the dish rack or hand to your dryer. It's really not so horrible. It's the pause after a good meal. Enjoyable communally or solo. And I've always enjoyed the zen of dishwashing.

As the monks say, "wash the dish."

Julie has two forks

There are two kinds of blogs: Those that reflect, opine, or ponder on the news and events of the day, and those that go blah blah blah. I like to think my blog does both.

My latest reflection: How does a woman reach a certain age, mother children, hold down a job and keep her car reasonably well maintained and still manage to find herself with only two forks in the household?

Two forks. One. Two. When last month I had maybe a dozen forks of various makes and vintage, a week ago I opened the drawer to find only two still in existence. None in the sink. None on the counter. None in the fridge (don't ask). None misplaced in any other likely drawer. Being a mother, I started a secondary search: Under the couches, out in the garden, under the beds. A physical body search of the children yielded nothing.

I had two forks in my household. There are three people living here. Right away you can see the problem.

The morning I realized I had only two forks, my daughter had a playdate spend the night. The next morning I made pancakes. My daughter, her friend, and my son, sat down to eat.

"I don't have a fork," said my son.

I quickly realized my dilemma. I searched my utensil drawer for something else. A creative plan B. They say the ability to use tools is what separates us from the lower animals.

"How about chopsticks?" I offered.

Hungry seven-year-old boys generally don't have the best sense of humor. I dug around some more. deep in the drawer I found a baby fork. It was tiny. It had a green plastic handle with a little dog on it. But it was a fork. I held it out to my son, who appeared to consider it briefly. Until the two older girls snickered.

I told the boy he'd just have to wait until one of the girls finished her breakfast, and he left the room with a look of profound insult. The girls proceeded to savor their pancakes at great length, and when they were done, the third pancake was cold.

That night I told Tony about my two forks, and he got up without another word (he did shake his head a little) and drove to Target to buy me two sets of new flatware.

I now have many forks. I still can't cook very well.

Blah blah blah.

A tempting New Year's morsel...

The flamenco guitarist said he'd buy me a soup pot or Dutch oven from Le Creuset as long as I promised to make him soup in it. I've coveted one of these things for so long the prospect of being gifted with one prompts me to action.

In the course of looking online for the closet Sur La Table to me, I came across this.

Here's a place not too far from me that offers basic cooking classes. At prices I can afford. Even more important, at times cleverly scheduled between traffic cycles.  That's important in Los Angeles.

Hmmm. Cooking classes. Think of the blog fodder.

Then I went back and looked at the Le Creuset page. I suffer so. I want a third of the items here. Especially that red teapot...

If the guitarist loves me like he says, he needs to buy me a set of these, too. So I can make him the promised lamb chops with mint sauce yadda yadda yadda with molten mocha cakes for desert.

Is it likely to turn out? Hell no. But I gots to try, yes?