When we were kids my mom would make a huge pot of spaghetti and meatballs every Sunday and the whole family, often bringing assorted friends, would come for dinner. After dinner Ma washed dishes for hours; she always said she found it relaxing to wash dishes and resisted getting a dishwasher for years.
Fast forward several decades: Ma is long-gone but we kids still gather for dinner most Sundays with a fairly rigid division of labor: My older sister and younger brother are both superb cooks, so one or the other (or both together) do all the cooking and my middle sister provides the salad, bread and dessert. As dinner time approaches everyone brings the prepared food to my house to eat; this is because, since I am as bad a cook as you can be without actually being lethal, it is in everyone’s best interest to keep me far away from the food prep area. So my partner and I provide the wine and the soda, and of course the venue, and then he and I clean it all up afterwards.
Following my parents’ established tradition, Sunday dinner can turn into a fair-sized crowd since my siblings’ friends, extended family and visitors are always welcome. But I break with my parents’ tradition in that dinners at our house are served on disposable plates with disposable utensils and disposable glasses. Unlike my mom, neither my partner nor I find doing dishes particularly relaxing; we don’t mind hosting the family dinner but we’re not about to spend hours cleaning up afterwards.
My brother’s ex-step-son Randall and Bethany, his wife, do not approve of disposable dinnerware and make pointed remarks about the kind of people who serve dinner to their guests on disposable plastic plates. Please note that Randall and Bethany have never offered to host dinner at their house, nor have they ever refused an invitation to mine.
Randy and Bethany look like stick figures come to life; they are both pasty white with bad haircuts, pointy little noses, sharp, angry eyebrows and receding chins; they both have high, squeaky voices that make me want to slap them just for the sheer joy of it. Randall and Bethany don’t just disapprove of throw-away dinnerware; they disapprove of pretty much everything my partner and I do. Generally I ignore them. Recently I couldn’t.
One recent Sunday afternoon while my brother was cooking dinner, Bethany, returning from the bathroom, mentioned that she thought that keeping a litter box in the bathroom was gross. Jumping right in¸ Randall opined that he thought letting our big dog Ali to actually come into the kitchen was even worse.
Ali, who had been lying quietly between the sink and the refrigerator, the best spot to be in case food falls on the floor, got up with a wounded dignity and walked into the guest room where she jumped on the bed. This is normally forbidden but is permitted during thunderstorms, fireworks, or if her feelings get hurt.
Seething, I was choosing my words carefully but before I could comment Parker, our junior cat, jumped up on the kitchen counter to say hello. Bethany was horrified.
“That’s disgusting,” she said. “A cat on the kitchen counter?” She actually grimaced.
“He doesn’t usually do that,” I lied; not mentioning that we generally feed both cats on top of the kitchen counter: it’s the only way to keep Ali from eating their food. “Down, Parker,” I said mildly; “bad boy!” Parker gave me a look of righteous indignation, but he gamely jumped down, clearly indicating there would be hell to pay later. I saw Bethany and Randall exchange a glance and I immediately had an idea.
A bit later I asked Bethany to set the table and handed her a stack of real dishes. Her jaw dropped.
“No plastic plates tonight?” she said.
“I figured we’ll eat like civilized beings for a change,” I said brightly. “After all that’s what the dishwasher is for.” Bethany beamed. Across the room my partner shot me his “WTF?” look but I shook my head ever so slightly and he was silent.
My brother’s dinner that evening was spaghetti and meatballs and it was outstanding, literally “just like mother used to make.” After dinner I asked Bethany and Randall to help me carry the soiled plates and silver into the kitchen. Elaborately casual, I called Ali over and set a dinner plate on the floor.
For one brief moment Ali clearly thought I had lost my mind; she is not allowed to lick the dinner dishes but she decided that this was some kind of karmic payback to her wounded pride so she dug in and the plate was clean and sparkling in seconds. Then I gave her another plate to lick clean. And another. And several more.
By this point Bethany and Randall were ashen. They both just stared at me.
I held up a plate Ali had just licked. “No dishwasher can get a plate this clean, “ I said. I gave it a cursory wipe with the front of my shirt and put the plate back in the cupboard.
“You’re not going to wash it?” said Bethany. Randall’s jaw was hanging slack.
“This is how we wash all of our dishes,” I said. “Way better than a dishwasher.”
My partner got an evil look in his eyes. “A dog’s mouth is very clean,” he said wickedly.
Randall and Bethany did not stay for dessert; we haven’t seen them since.