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Why The Dishwasher is the Devil

This IS NOT a review...

Growing up I was the dishwasher. This meant I washed and dried the dishes. My parents put the dishes away until I was tall and strong enough to do so myself. This among several other chores was what I did to "earn my keep" at Casa de Payne - Chi-Town. Via this experience I learned what a clean plate and cup truly is: it sparkles, it squeaks upon being touched and it doesn't streak unless your hands are dirty. Automatic dishwashers were out back then, but why get one when you had a living one under your roof?

I owned my first automatic dishwasher at the age of 35. I ordered it from Best Buy and had it installed in the kitchen of a home I was flipping (back when homes could be flipped). It was beautiful. I only used it once: I turned it on to make sure it worked.

But I did have a dishwasher at home. A little boy who just couldn't seem to wrap his mind around doing the dishes. One, who handled them like superballs. That same year he cleaned us out of all our cups and bowls. All we had were plates to eat from. I was furious.

Then we moved to a place with an automatic dishwasher. Our problems were solved! Or so I thought. Some nights I would rush into the kitchen concerned because it sounded like a robots were fighting in my kitchen. Instead it was an overloaded dishwasher with plastic cups and bowls melting in the bottom, pot handles sticking up through the top basket and plates stacked on top of each other, versus beside one another.

This boy doesn't know water doesn't pass through solid objects?
I asked myself repeatedly that year.

At our next and current destination we have a dishwasher here as well. I've come down into the kitchen bright and early in the morning to make breakfast only to pull out a skillet with food baked onto it or a cup for my daughter with broccoli in it, just to give you an example. Clearly these items had been in the dishwasher, but here's the thing: THE DISHWASHER DIDN'T CLEAN THEM. Yet there they are sitting with actual clean dishes in my cabinets.

And don't let us run out of those soap pellet thingys. One week my family of four had one fork, two spoons and a plate to eat from because according to my son he couldn't wash the dishes because there were no soap pellet thingys. On the sink sat a full bottle of dishwashing liquid and an empty dish dryer. "You're joking, right?" I asked him. He looked perplexed. "Are your (had to pause to keep from cursing) hands broken?" Then I did curse. "Wash the damn dishes with your hands and stop being lazy!"

Since then I've only had a few hiccups in this process with him, such as finding hand-washed dishes with grease on them. Or a full sink because, "the rack is full" to which I say, "Well then, dry the dishes and keep washing them, PLEASE!" I have to laugh. I was a teen once and I did hate washing dishes. But I was good at it otherwise my behind ended up being soft for the night.

So okay, the dishwasher isn't really the devil. But isn't it amazing how the things that are supposed to help us sometimes only make things worse?

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