Driving between jobs in the car I just caught the tail end of a very lively debate on the radio about how the modern domestic appliance of a dishwasher has destroyed the most sacred of family activities- washing up at the sink. After some recollection and general thought I believe that there is some considerable truth in that statement.
Father was the best at washing up. He revelled in the daily chore and excelled at the times of the year when our dining room resembled the grand dining hall at Hogwarts School with a full assembly of up to 19 family members. Us siblings and our own offspring would hover around the kitchen door after Boxing Day tea or Easter Sunday lunch volunteering to assist in the huge transfer of plates, bowls, tureens, platters, knives, forks and spoons on the heirloom trolley across the mosaic tile floor of the hallway, past the foot of the stairs and with a bump over the threshold to negotiate a sharp left turn around the fridge freezer to get a clear run in to the twin drainer stainless steel sink unit. Father assumed the principal washer-upper position. Two helpers would be delegated to unloading the trolley and stacking the dirty ware whilst another two hovered around to seize the warm, soapy and squeaky clean items as they emerged from the washing up bowl nestled cosily in the sink basin for tea towel drying.
The secret to the whole operation was the scalding hot temperature of the water which in near boiling frenzy spat out of the tap after an almost centre of the earth pressure and process in the Aga range. Father donned his marigold rubber gloves and he was away. Under the production line type operation there was however serenity and calm. It was an ideal time to catch Father off guard from his shy, self concious and very modest nature and many a memory, anecdote or wicked joke emerged. A particularly memorable observation, or should it have been a confession, was that a one time next door neighbour, a Danish lady used to do her own washing up whilst topless and in almost direct clear view of our kitchen window if you stood slightly off balance.
The washing up also satisfied Fathers requirement for a brief escape from the full contingent of family and even when stacking, washing and drying was fully completed and signed off he would stay on in the kitchen for as long as possible whilst the mayhem, madness, merriment and monkey coat wearing that was the chocolate game erupted in the other room.
When growing up as one of 5 children the ritual of washing up was a major part of the family experience. We all ate, during the week, at the kitchen table. This was of stout pale pine with matching chairs and a refectory style bench seat. It was very busy in preparation for school and the prospect of a rapid route walk slipstreaming Father who would deposit us at the gates to our respective establishments before getting to his workplace in the town centre. That was until younger brother doubled back and went home. There was an enquiry about that. Most days the washing up had to left for Mother because the hot water supply from boiler and immersion heated cylinder was depleted from it high demands to get us all presentable.
Conversations were started, developed and concluded at the kitchen sink. A rota was posted up showing responsibilities prior to and following family meals and blocks of time were regularly traded as though stocks and shares. It was also a time for fun and it was usually the case that more water and Fairy Liquid suds ended up on the vinyl floor or the kitchen than made it onto the plates and down the plughole. A washing up liquid bottle emptied of its emerald green detergent made an excellent water pistol. Under a full squeeze an arc of faintly lime coloured water could be propelled almost the full length of the back garden or if uncontrolled, all up the kitchen wall and ceiling.
There were of course casualties in the process of washing up. A badly and loosely arranged pile of still soapy flatware was always at risk from shearing away off the drainer and cascading with a Greek style chorus of smashing and fracturing pottery. Fortunately, we had a lot of plastic Tupperware and although this could get quite out of shape in very hot washing up water it only bounced and rolled away if it hit the floor.
Late night washing up took on a special quality. There remains a nice feeling about going to bed knowing that the kitchen sink is clear and the pots are washed and cleaned although not necessarily put away. I was definitely brought up proper with regard to washing up and can faithfully say that even as a student I did not, knowingly, leave anything on the drainer or in the sink for more than a few days.
So, with all this fond recollection of washing up why do I now have an automatic dishwasher?
It is a status symbol. I bathe in the envious gaze of others shoppers in Sainsbury's with my dishwasher supplies of tablet detergent, rinse aid, large bag of salt, Calgon things and even a de-odouriser taking up a good proportion of the trolley and making up, at least, 20% of my whole grocery budget.
It is however a joyless thing and there is no emotion about loading up and later emptying the machine. As a man I thrive in getting as many items as possible into the racks. This makes sense but some 3 hours later the beeping end of cycle indicator only heralds the possibilty of having to hand wash part of even a higher proportion of the load still speckled with food residues.
Many conversations in polite Cafe culture revolve around the perceived benefits in time and effort from having a dishwasher.
It is possible that recent generations of children do not know how to undertake manual washing up. Parents with high tech eco-dishwashers and the demise of Domestic Science in schools make this a distinct but disturbing reality. Do The Sims on X-Box, PC and other media forms do any washing up in their virtual world which could serve as a role model?
It is very sad that they will have missed out on such a family activity which has been a source of precious memories and much useful information in my own life.
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