My son's new kitchen does not have a dishwasher. He's moved into the "snow house" at UC Davis. Being a club officer, he was eligible. A few other houses full of snow club members have popped up along his sweet, tree lined cul de sac street.
The home's kitchen is worn in. The polyurethane finish on the oak cabinets has worn away in lots of places. The laminate countertop and electric stove are holding up pretty well. The kitchen is small. There's no dishwasher nor an obvious spot for one. My son is responsible for cooking for himself for the first time and for washing his dishes in the sink after.
"You know, Patsy had a free standing dishwasher," I told him, remembering my grandmother. He was perplexed so I went on to explain that it was on wheels, with a butcher block top that could fill in as a kitchen island. The top hinged up, pulling with it tiered, pivoting shelves for glasses. The plates stacked down at the bottom. "Then you closed it up, wheeled it to the sink, screwed a hose attachment to the faucet. It would use the sink water to fill and and the sink drain to drain."
This seemed to me to be a rather logical approach. I never considered the time management that would be required for dishwashing. You would have to know for sure that you were done with your sink for a while. By the time Grandma started up the dishwasher, the rest of the kitchen was orderly and clean. It looked effortless, but I know it wasn't.
I remember, when I was small enough, getting to sit on top of the dishwasher while my grandma or my dad moved about in the kitchen. I can remember the gorgeous smell of summer peaches sitting plumply in a bowl on the counter. I remember the old, small casement windows over the sink, swung open on dainty brass hardware. Rinsed out plastic bags rustled, clothespin-ed on the line outside and my grandfather's raspberries were nestled on their spiky vines on the other side of the driveway.
Essay and photo by Hannah Denmark. All rights reserved.
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