You Don’t Own Me, Dishwasher

I’ve had it with that dishwasher.
Not the guy at Nye’s, even if he does pretend not to know English for “fork” and laughs at my attempt to remember the Spanish for it.
I refer to that machine wedged under my kitchen counter.The one with the helpful demeanor.
I’ve never had a dishwasher before.
“You should use it,” Kurt says.“It’s like a machine.That washes your dishes.”
So I did.You might not know it to look at me, but I’m pretty amenable.You want me to use the dishwasher?Sure.Why not.
But the dishwasher, she mocks me.
‘Baked on,’ I think to myself, pulling a pan from the rack.‘Sparkling, but encrusted.’
I scrape.I rinse.I do everything but actually wash them before I have them washed.
And yet, every now and then, there it is:the pot in which I had mashed the potatoes, the fork I had neglected to massage clean.
I can get this kind of abuse anywhere.
So I’ve returned to the sink.It’s winter here in the Land of 10,000 Lakes, and a basin of hot water has its appeal.I stare out the window at the house next door and think about spring, think about my Grandma’s hands in the sudsy water, think about having discovered that yogurt and kiwi turns into a bitter, inedible mess overnight.
Every day, people.Every day is a learning experience.