Dishes

My mother did the shopping, planned the meals and cooked them. The rest of us set the table and cleared the dishes after dinner. The rules were strict. We weren’t allowed to stack them, but had to remove one plate at a time from each place at the long mahogany table in the dining room. Even now, I feel like I have broken one of the ten commandments when I stack dirty plates on top of each other when clearing the table after supper. I was even taught to remove from the right and serve on the left. If there was a guest, remove their plate first, otherwise the plates of parents first and then children. These things mattered.

My siblings and I did the dishes. One person stood at the sink filled with hot soapy water, another rinsed at the next sink. One person dried dishes and pots and pans and the last put dishes away. There was an order and we all shouted out for our preferred jobs. I think I liked the soapy water, I couldn’t reach the high shelves in the pantry where plates were stacked.

My father often took part in this dish washing ritual. I remember looking at his face reflected in the window as he stood at the sink at the end of a long day at the office; his tie loosened around his buttoned down collar, sleeves rolled up. There was easy conversation, laughter. Everyone was more relaxed at the sink.

I don’t know what year we got the “automatic dishwasher,” I think it was 1964. My father said he was going to miss doing the dishes with us. Miss it? How could he miss doing chores? I’d rather be talking on the phone with Gay Parker or doing my homework or listening to the radio in my room pretending to be doing my homework.

But now I understand his comment. I understand his desire to hold us all together. Standing side by side at the dark window, working at a common purpose before we all flew off in different directions. We were resigned to the job at hand and made the most of it, even if we argued over dishes not properly rinsed or a pokey drier holding everything up. We were part of a family. Deep down, despite frustrations, the message was clear.

The dishwashing routine was not the only thing that changed. One brother went to college, one to boarding school, my sister had a boyfriend and we moved. Moved far away from that kitchen sink, that mahogany table and that time in our lives. Although I still cleared the table after dinner, three plates now, I loaded the dishwasher by myself in the tiny Brookline kitchen.