Zen
|
by
John Knapp March 2016 |
Perhaps this is an essay on sibling rivalry.
|
Zen,
and the Art of Dishwasher Loading My first encounter with a dishwasher occurred over fifty years ago. Prior to the arrival of the dishwasher in our home, my brother, sisters, and I all had specific chores to do around the house in order to earn our allowance. In those early-teen years, our allowance would have been around fifty cents a week. My brother and I had the chore of taking out the garbage every day, stoking the sawdust furnace in the winter, and taking care of the lawns, and garden weeding in the summer. This is why I grew up having such a hatred of lawn-mowing that is still with me today. Our sisters’ role was to clean up the dinner dishes, wash them, dry them, and put them away; nightly. That’s it! That’s all! Nothing else! To my brother and I, this was an unreasonable distribution of labour that fostered rivalry towards our sisters for their simple job. Our jobs were much harder. Of course, to my sisters, rivalry was also felt, because their task was daily while ours was really only labour intensive in the winter and on weekends in the summer. Yes! Our very precious summer Saturdays. I and my three siblings also have a younger brother. He was only six or seven in those years and therefore had no chores to do, other than feeding Dad’s annoying little mutt, Coco. You can imagine the bitter-sweet feelings the four of us brewed over young Stephen. Bickering was constant. A true ‘ménages à cinq’. Then one day, Dad appeared with his answer to stop all the bickering – a brand, spanking new |
dishwasher. Knowing Dad, this was probably a prototype, beta-test model, the first one off the assembly line. Or maybe it was ‘hot’ – just bought from one of his cronies in the beer parlour.
What? You don’t know what a beer parlour is?
In Canada, back in the fifties, we didn’t have pubs, or taverns, or cafes that served liquor, or
any of the more comfortable ways to enjoy a tipple that are available today. People drank in beer parlours.
Men were isolated to one huge, open room with plain brown, beer soaked linoleum floors, no wall decorations, and small tables absolutely filled with beer glasses. The air, along with the language, was smoky and foul. And patrons always had to be seated. No standing and drinking allowed. You were only allowed to stand if you were going off for a pee. That occurred often. In this way, men could get on with the serious job of quaffing hundreds of ten-ounce glasses of almost tasteless beer. At one end of this large, brightly lit, noisy, testosterone filled hall, were doors to the adjacent parlour.
Through those doors, women, with their guests, sat quietly sipping their beer in a far more genteel manner. Floors were carpeted, not beer-soaked; prints of the ‘Masters’ hung on the walls; the waiters were washed and wore white aprons. No! Not just aprons, dummy. This was the fifties - the 1950s. In both parlours, the permitted drink was beer only – primarily draught beer.
In those days, beer parlours were often frequented by shady characters trying to dispose of ‘hot’ or 'fake' merchandise, especially at the ‘Cecil’ or the ‘American’ – Dad’s locals. Dad regularly succumbed to the superior sales techniques practised by those salesmen. I can remember the day he came home with his brand new ‘Longrines’ wrist watch that he persuaded the fence to part with for a measly $200.00. Oh, yes! The rest of us all spotted the spelling mistake in that watch’s name but nobody dared to say anything.
But I digress. Back to the saga of the new, 'purloined' dishwasher, from wherever it came.
On this special day, a large box was rolled into our kitchen. Dad said it was a marvel in latest technology. And, of course it rolled in – it was ‘portable’. In those days, there were no holes in kitchen cabinetry to house a dishwasher – it was possibly the first dishwasher in Canada. After using that incredible labour-saving device, a space had to be found somewhere, to store this four foot cube on wheels. If it was really the latest in technology, you’d think they might have fashioned it more like R2D2, giving it some character. It might have spoken to us, warning of all the no-noes that we painstakingly had to learn for ourselves.
It was a top loading variety with, naturally, an electric cord to supply power, and a long rubber hose that was meant to attach to the kitchen tap, to both admit hot water and dispose of soiled water at various times during the cleaning process. You simply loaded the dirty pots, dishes, utensils and glassware, attached the hose to the tap, plugged it in, turned on the hot water and flipped the switch. Then you stepped back, watched, waited, and marveled for about an hour while the machine grunted, groaned, drank copious quantities of hot water, and spat, (or more appropriately described – peed) until it was done and popped its lid a couple of inches to let out the steam – a bit like a hippopotamus’ burp – smelled like a hippo’s burp, too.
Now, according to Dad, there was no need to rinse the dishes prior to washing. “Just put them all in and let the machine do the work,” he said. The trouble was, in those days, dishwashers lacked some of the basic amenities featured in today’s models. There was no built in garburator, and no little container for the special chemical to remove spots on glasses. Little bits of super-heated food morsels got swirled around inside. Some were removed through the disposal cycle, but most ended up being cemented to the otherwise clean-ish glassware and dishes – quite effectively baked on during the dry cycle.
My brother and I grinned at each other. If we were now going to wash all our dishes in a hippopotamus’ stomach, our sister’s chores were not yet over. They were going to have to let those freshly washed dishes soak for a couple of days before they began the joys of really scrubbing them clean. After a few tries, everyone found that it was really better to rinse clean those dishes before putting them in the dishwasher – I mean really clean. Problem solved? Not quite.
If the glasses began in an almost pristine condition, after the wash, they all came out spotty from the water that had dried on them. Yes. There were spots, even in the Vancouver area where we are fortunate to have very soft water. This problem would be far worse in hard water communities. After all was washed in the hippo’s tummy, anyone wanting to use a glass had to wash it again.
After about a month of use, a further discovery was made. In the fifties, most water glasses had little designs printed on them, like pansies or tulips. It slowly became obvious that the printed designs were coming off. Inside the washer, nothing but water spray actually touched the dishes but they were all losing their coat of paint. And, in addition to losing their paint, the glasses began to take on a sort of cloudy, hazy appearance. The glass, itself, was beginning to look etched.
The next thing noticed was that if you weren’t careful with the amount of detergent used, you might occasionally find the kitchen about a foot deep in soap foam. After cleaning up the kitchen, again, happily, our sister’s chore, it took many rinsings to get the soap out of the dishwasher.
It wasn’t long before the manufacturers started marketing low sudsing soap. But this new soap was very caustic. Mom and Dad were using aluminum cook-ware in those days, and surprise, surprise, when the pots emerged from the machine they were shiny – almost as shiny as chrome (except for the little glued-on food bits). That soap had removed the protective coat of aluminum oxide that keeps the pots a dull and a slightly milky shade of gray – and probably keeps them safe to use as cook-ware.
It was about this time that Dad completely lost interest in the project and returned to his favourite chair in the living room to watch Grand Ol’ Opry with his annoying little mutt, Coco.
This foray into technology did not resolve the family bickering, and certainly didn’t prove to be a labour-saving device. Today, the childhood bickering is behind us – all five siblings are the best of friends.
Looking back on those days, I began to notice, for the second time in modern kitchen history, a significant rise in the occurrence of that dreaded disease, AMS – Alpha Male Syndrome. With the invention of the barbecue a few years earlier, men, who had to that moment taken no interest in the events of the kitchen, suddenly appeared on the scene. Somehow, they were armed with expert knowledge in the best way to cook a steak with seemingly no training at all. In a flash, they knew the correct temperatures, timings, and the tastiest sauces to make.
With the arrival of the dishwasher, it happened again! Those same Alpha Males returned to the kitchen with their Zen (a deep understanding of all things) to advise all on the ‘Art of Dishwasher Loading’. Again, with no training, they miraculously knew whether the utensils should be stacked with handles up or handles down; what side of the washer the plates should stand on for best cleaning. They knew what pots should go in, if pots go in at all; where best to place them; what angles for best access to the spray.
From somewhere, they acquired a thorough knowledge of expensive bone china, and how best to care for it through the washing cycles. China manufacturers, like Royal Doulton, Aynsley, and Noritake, all praised the dishwasher, and that proved good enough for Alpha Males. No matter that even the spectacular and expensive china also eventually succumbed to the power of dishwasher soap.
Alpha Males knew all about rinsing agents, like Jet-Dry. They were suddenly experts in the mineral content of all the water tables in the country and seemed to know just how much detergent to use depending on the hardness of the water in any particular area. Some Alpha Males don’t allow the use of those soap and rinse capsules, because they always produce too much lather. Other Alpha Males absolutely swear by them, as yet another fantastic labour-saving device. There are no rules, no courses to be attended, just intrinsic knowledge possessed by all Alpha Males.
Lately, I have been doing a little navel gazing, and am shocked to realize that I, too, have a number of very effective rules regarding the appropriate placement of items in a dishwasher. When company is over and helping me clean up in the kitchen, I sometimes find myself relocating a lot of the things placed by my help. Utensil handles must be down. Plates go there and bowls go on this side. Wine glasses go on the top right; other glasses go on the left; coffee mugs down the middle. Always put stainless steel pots in. Never use rinsing agents – plain white vinegar works just as well, at a fraction of the cost. Always use the detergent in gel form – not powder or capsules.
Oh, well. I guess I, too, suffer from that dreaded ‘Alpha Male Syndrome’. I like it. I hope there’s no cure.
What? You don’t know what a beer parlour is?
In Canada, back in the fifties, we didn’t have pubs, or taverns, or cafes that served liquor, or
any of the more comfortable ways to enjoy a tipple that are available today. People drank in beer parlours.
Men were isolated to one huge, open room with plain brown, beer soaked linoleum floors, no wall decorations, and small tables absolutely filled with beer glasses. The air, along with the language, was smoky and foul. And patrons always had to be seated. No standing and drinking allowed. You were only allowed to stand if you were going off for a pee. That occurred often. In this way, men could get on with the serious job of quaffing hundreds of ten-ounce glasses of almost tasteless beer. At one end of this large, brightly lit, noisy, testosterone filled hall, were doors to the adjacent parlour.
Through those doors, women, with their guests, sat quietly sipping their beer in a far more genteel manner. Floors were carpeted, not beer-soaked; prints of the ‘Masters’ hung on the walls; the waiters were washed and wore white aprons. No! Not just aprons, dummy. This was the fifties - the 1950s. In both parlours, the permitted drink was beer only – primarily draught beer.
In those days, beer parlours were often frequented by shady characters trying to dispose of ‘hot’ or 'fake' merchandise, especially at the ‘Cecil’ or the ‘American’ – Dad’s locals. Dad regularly succumbed to the superior sales techniques practised by those salesmen. I can remember the day he came home with his brand new ‘Longrines’ wrist watch that he persuaded the fence to part with for a measly $200.00. Oh, yes! The rest of us all spotted the spelling mistake in that watch’s name but nobody dared to say anything.
But I digress. Back to the saga of the new, 'purloined' dishwasher, from wherever it came.
On this special day, a large box was rolled into our kitchen. Dad said it was a marvel in latest technology. And, of course it rolled in – it was ‘portable’. In those days, there were no holes in kitchen cabinetry to house a dishwasher – it was possibly the first dishwasher in Canada. After using that incredible labour-saving device, a space had to be found somewhere, to store this four foot cube on wheels. If it was really the latest in technology, you’d think they might have fashioned it more like R2D2, giving it some character. It might have spoken to us, warning of all the no-noes that we painstakingly had to learn for ourselves.
It was a top loading variety with, naturally, an electric cord to supply power, and a long rubber hose that was meant to attach to the kitchen tap, to both admit hot water and dispose of soiled water at various times during the cleaning process. You simply loaded the dirty pots, dishes, utensils and glassware, attached the hose to the tap, plugged it in, turned on the hot water and flipped the switch. Then you stepped back, watched, waited, and marveled for about an hour while the machine grunted, groaned, drank copious quantities of hot water, and spat, (or more appropriately described – peed) until it was done and popped its lid a couple of inches to let out the steam – a bit like a hippopotamus’ burp – smelled like a hippo’s burp, too.
Now, according to Dad, there was no need to rinse the dishes prior to washing. “Just put them all in and let the machine do the work,” he said. The trouble was, in those days, dishwashers lacked some of the basic amenities featured in today’s models. There was no built in garburator, and no little container for the special chemical to remove spots on glasses. Little bits of super-heated food morsels got swirled around inside. Some were removed through the disposal cycle, but most ended up being cemented to the otherwise clean-ish glassware and dishes – quite effectively baked on during the dry cycle.
My brother and I grinned at each other. If we were now going to wash all our dishes in a hippopotamus’ stomach, our sister’s chores were not yet over. They were going to have to let those freshly washed dishes soak for a couple of days before they began the joys of really scrubbing them clean. After a few tries, everyone found that it was really better to rinse clean those dishes before putting them in the dishwasher – I mean really clean. Problem solved? Not quite.
If the glasses began in an almost pristine condition, after the wash, they all came out spotty from the water that had dried on them. Yes. There were spots, even in the Vancouver area where we are fortunate to have very soft water. This problem would be far worse in hard water communities. After all was washed in the hippo’s tummy, anyone wanting to use a glass had to wash it again.
After about a month of use, a further discovery was made. In the fifties, most water glasses had little designs printed on them, like pansies or tulips. It slowly became obvious that the printed designs were coming off. Inside the washer, nothing but water spray actually touched the dishes but they were all losing their coat of paint. And, in addition to losing their paint, the glasses began to take on a sort of cloudy, hazy appearance. The glass, itself, was beginning to look etched.
The next thing noticed was that if you weren’t careful with the amount of detergent used, you might occasionally find the kitchen about a foot deep in soap foam. After cleaning up the kitchen, again, happily, our sister’s chore, it took many rinsings to get the soap out of the dishwasher.
It wasn’t long before the manufacturers started marketing low sudsing soap. But this new soap was very caustic. Mom and Dad were using aluminum cook-ware in those days, and surprise, surprise, when the pots emerged from the machine they were shiny – almost as shiny as chrome (except for the little glued-on food bits). That soap had removed the protective coat of aluminum oxide that keeps the pots a dull and a slightly milky shade of gray – and probably keeps them safe to use as cook-ware.
It was about this time that Dad completely lost interest in the project and returned to his favourite chair in the living room to watch Grand Ol’ Opry with his annoying little mutt, Coco.
This foray into technology did not resolve the family bickering, and certainly didn’t prove to be a labour-saving device. Today, the childhood bickering is behind us – all five siblings are the best of friends.
Looking back on those days, I began to notice, for the second time in modern kitchen history, a significant rise in the occurrence of that dreaded disease, AMS – Alpha Male Syndrome. With the invention of the barbecue a few years earlier, men, who had to that moment taken no interest in the events of the kitchen, suddenly appeared on the scene. Somehow, they were armed with expert knowledge in the best way to cook a steak with seemingly no training at all. In a flash, they knew the correct temperatures, timings, and the tastiest sauces to make.
With the arrival of the dishwasher, it happened again! Those same Alpha Males returned to the kitchen with their Zen (a deep understanding of all things) to advise all on the ‘Art of Dishwasher Loading’. Again, with no training, they miraculously knew whether the utensils should be stacked with handles up or handles down; what side of the washer the plates should stand on for best cleaning. They knew what pots should go in, if pots go in at all; where best to place them; what angles for best access to the spray.
From somewhere, they acquired a thorough knowledge of expensive bone china, and how best to care for it through the washing cycles. China manufacturers, like Royal Doulton, Aynsley, and Noritake, all praised the dishwasher, and that proved good enough for Alpha Males. No matter that even the spectacular and expensive china also eventually succumbed to the power of dishwasher soap.
Alpha Males knew all about rinsing agents, like Jet-Dry. They were suddenly experts in the mineral content of all the water tables in the country and seemed to know just how much detergent to use depending on the hardness of the water in any particular area. Some Alpha Males don’t allow the use of those soap and rinse capsules, because they always produce too much lather. Other Alpha Males absolutely swear by them, as yet another fantastic labour-saving device. There are no rules, no courses to be attended, just intrinsic knowledge possessed by all Alpha Males.
Lately, I have been doing a little navel gazing, and am shocked to realize that I, too, have a number of very effective rules regarding the appropriate placement of items in a dishwasher. When company is over and helping me clean up in the kitchen, I sometimes find myself relocating a lot of the things placed by my help. Utensil handles must be down. Plates go there and bowls go on this side. Wine glasses go on the top right; other glasses go on the left; coffee mugs down the middle. Always put stainless steel pots in. Never use rinsing agents – plain white vinegar works just as well, at a fraction of the cost. Always use the detergent in gel form – not powder or capsules.
Oh, well. I guess I, too, suffer from that dreaded ‘Alpha Male Syndrome’. I like it. I hope there’s no cure.
