Washing the Dishes Has Become My Favorite Ritual and a Source of Comfort in Tough Times
A happy home operates like an orchestra whose seasoned musicians never fail to play in sync. Inside mine each morning, the sun’s rays splash atop a freshly-cut bouquet of lilies, their petals slowly blooming, filling the living room air with the scent of honey. Fruit flies hover and buzz near the seeds of a half-cut lemon used the night before. The robot vacuum loudly sweeps up sea salt crystals that bounced off the scrambled eggs my partner made for breakfast and landed on the floor.
My role in the orchestra is to strum the instrument that’s recently brought me considerable levels of joy: the dishwasher.
In early March, when seeds of the coronavirus pandemic began to worry New Yorkers, my partner and I flew to our home state of Florida to be closer to family. We’ve since adapted to a comfortable and slower pace of life (albeit temporary) in his hometown of Gainesville, where we’ve limited our outings to biweekly grocery store runs and occasional jogs through the neighborhood. It’s a privilege to reconnect with each other and share a safe space. And I’m incredibly lucky that he’s a skilled home cook—someone equipped to make grilled lamb chops with tzatziki sauce or late-night mac and cheese sprinkled with truffle flakes.
Yet the early months of life in suburban quarantine were unfamiliar and stressful. Without a hectic morning commute and the structure of a busy routine in the city, I flailed in search of the peace of mind that comes with humdrum activities like picking up the dry cleaning and avoiding eye contact with sweaty strangers after a spin session. Slowly, very slowly, I tried new activities I hoped would alleviate my anxiety: at-home workouts via Instagram, boozy happy hours on Zoom, solving puzzles or tie-dying sweatpants.
But when my new efforts did nothing to soothe me, my therapist suggested I focus on factors in my life that, in this moment, aren’t subject to change.
It’s an unspoken rule in our home that since whipping up delicious food is my partner’s thing, cleaning up is mine. Back in New York, I would have reluctantly rolled my eyes at the thought of loading up the dishwasher after a long day of work; just one more thing to cross off the to-do list. But in overthinking about what consistent rituals could bring me joy at a time when finding it feels like an exhausting challenge, I’ve discovered that cleaning is that thing. The daily practice of housekeeping has replaced the packed, regimented schedule that kept me grounded. Some folks may turn to their yoga mats or mindfulness podcasts for meditation, I turn to the dishwasher.
When my partner’s finished cooking and the sink is filled with utensils and kitchen tools that need rinsing, my eyes light up. No one may want to hover beneath the faucet and scrape off the meaty remains of bolognese sauce or the layer of fat beneath a whole roasted chicken—except for me. The ritual of dishwashing is one I can wholly control from start to finish, and it’s become the most therapeutic practice I can count on aside from hopping on the phone with my therapist. As the dishwasher itself becomes loaded—white plates immaculately aligned on the bottom shelf, glassware flipped upside down on the top—I think about… nothing. For just a few moments, when my forearms grow wet and the dirtiness of a stacked sink disappears, the restlessness that otherwise exists in my mind completely evaporates (and I know I’m not alone in this feeling).
There’s a tremendous amount of freedom and comfort I receive from knowing that in just under one hour, I can open the door to the Kenmore and find sparkly kitchen wares asking to be placed into their drawers and cupboards. The high that bakers experience when they open an oven and see cookies finally turning golden brown is the same I have when I see a spick and span set of tools sparkle. I’ve found, thankfully, so much delight in making sure my partner’s beloved orange Le Creuset shines bright, that the cocktail shaker is ready to be shaken again.
The humdrum rituals I took for granted and enjoyed just a few months ago—waiting for the subway doors to open, clipping into a spin bike—have almost been forgotten because of the pleasure I get from relying on an appliance for tidiness. Doing so is a gift to my partner, it’s one way to show my appreciation for his meals.
If a happy home operates like an orchestra, the sounds of my dishwasher splashing about are my favorite to listen closely for.