It was a typical Saturday morning. I shuffled into the kitchen, popped in a Keurig cup and placed my favorite mug in position to receive one of God’s greatest gifts to mankind. As the sweet, sweet caffeine slowly dripped into my mug, I rubbed my eyes and ran my hands through my hair attempting to tame the lion’s mane.
I scanned the kitchen to get my bearings. And there it was. The point of unspoken contention for the last five days. The source of quiet frustration. The test I put in place for my husband. The test I didn’t tell him about, the test he failed, and what I am now simply calling The Dish.
The 9×13 Pyrex baking dish sat in the sink soaking in water as it had since Tuesday. I am aware of how disgusting this is, but I was blinded by rage at the time. Regardless, I give you permission to judge. This baking dish had held the delicious lasagna P made last week.
A recent trend has emerged in this Moss household. I’m not sure why it is just now developing after a year and a half of marriage, but I wish it would go back to where it came from. The trend is this. Dirty dishes are using the counter by the sink as their final resting place rather than the actual sink.
Now, you are probably saying, “Libby, don’t be such a nag. Pick your battles. Seriously, you sound like a B.”
And yes, that all may be true. However, these are not dishes upon which a sandwich was just eaten. No. They are dishes that served lasagna, or seafood pasta, or, one of the worst offenders, cereal. These dishes sit on the counter and faster than you can say “red sauce,” the traces of food have crusted over and will ultimately require a chisel to remove.
I came home Tuesday night to find The Dish, with all of it’s little bits of hardened pasta and dried sauce, sitting on the counter just to the left of the sink.
I took a deep breath, cleaned the other plates in the sink and grabbed The Dish. As I placed it in the sink, a sudden wave of defiance washed over me.
“No. No, I will not clean this dish. I don’t want to. And you can’t make me. He can do it. P can clean it.”
So, I filled the dish halfway with water and left it sitting in the sink thinking he would get sick of it sitting there and would clean it himself.
He didn’t notice it Tuesday evening.
Worked around it on Wednesday.
Piled dishes on top of it on Thursday.
And ignored it on Friday.
Which brings us to Saturday morning.
I stood staring at The Dish and glared into the living room at P sitting on the couch watching some Western movie with Clint Eastwood. Typical. This battle of wills had come to a breaking point. I couldn’t stand it any longer.
Me: Fine. I give in. I will clean The Dish.
I said this with such sass. I was a martyr.
He said this with such confusion.
Me: The Dish. The one I’ve left in the sink for five days hoping you would clean. I give up. I’ll clean it.
I said this with more than a hint of irritation and impatience.
P: Oh. Ok.
He said this without any hint of interest.
Me: I really hoped you were going to clean it.
I said this with a tone suggesting there was still time for redemption.
P: Babe. It’s called He Cooks. I Clean. for a reason.
He said this with a smirk and a shrug.
Guess I should have seen that one coming. With no clever comeback in mind, I turned back to the sink, picked up the scrubber and silently went to work on The Dish.