Washing the dishes was never really my thing. I just don’t like it.
Dirty water, gross leftovers, and stubborn grease.
I remind myself exactly how much I detest this job, and then get to work.
I turn on the kitchen faucet. Funny noises are coming through the pipes. Oh, no, I think to myself.
Mud pours into the sink. When I say mud, I’m not talking about dirty water.
I mean mini dirt clods and sand and grit and brown-ness. Lots of brown-ness.
“Uugghh!” I throw my hands up in the air. “I’m trying to be nice about this, but come on!” I say in disgust.
I fill two buckets with water from our rain barrel and haul them inside. “This is not fun.” I announce. “I don’t care if we can’t have a dishwasher. All I want is clean water,” And I get started on the dishes, one by one, rinse and scrub and rinse and soap and rinse.
So this is how it goes.
Washing your dishes in mud. Isn’t fun.
Washing your clothes in mud. Isn’t fun.
Washing your hair in mud. Isn’t fun.