Bob Wire Has a Point (It's Under His Cowboy Hat)
There’s a Method to the Madness of the Dishwasher
You can't just put them in there any old way. Cripes.By Bob Wire, 1-11-10
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Among the many nicknames I have within my family (The Cleaner [of leftover meal portions], Grits Breath, the Light Sheriff, the Toilet Paper Fairy, the Dribbler, etc.), I am most proud of the sobriquet The Packer. I am in charge of loading the 4Runner for any camping trips, road trips, or any excursion that requires that most of our worldly possessions be transferred from the house to the vehicle. My status as a World Tetris Master, 12th degree, should give you some idea of my expertise in making sure that there is not one molecule of air between any objects crammed in the back of the Toyota.
This skill has also manifested itself at the grocery store, occasionally a checker notes with astonishment that my basket of items has been arranged on the conveyor belt so tightly that no part of the belt is exposed anywhere. The ability to do this even with canned food is where the 12th degree comes in.
Maybe it’s OCD, maybe it’s an anal retentive crack in my personality. I don’t know. I don’t question it, I just don’t fight it. Sometimes it gets in the way, like when we’re playing Scrabble and I constantly feel the need to arrange the unchosen tiles in alphabetical order. But mostly, I’ve learned to use it to my advantage. Like when I load the dishwasher.
The kitchen is one of the few places in the house where I can let my obsessive bugaboo run wild, and nothing makes me crazier than a haphazardly loaded dishwasher. This is a task that demands order. I put all plastic cups and storage containers in the front of the top rack, for instance, to concentrate the weight on the rear section, thus minimizing wear on the runners. Crazy, right? Bowls are evenly spaced in tight rows, but not so tight that a couple of streams of water can’t get in there. When I’m satisfied that the top rack is full, you wouldn’t find enough room in there to wedge a greasy butter knife.
The bottom rack requires a somewhat different focus, one I’ve been trying to impart to Rusty and Speaker, my freeloading kids. “Your free ride is over,” I have told them. “You need to learn how to load the dishwasher.” My method isn’t just uniformity for uniformity’s sake, it has to do with thinking ahead to the person who will likely unload the dishwasher, namely me. I try to keep all the plates together, all the bowls together, etc., so I can just reach in and grab the whole stack to put in the cupboard. Efficient, right? Except when someone else has loaded the dishwasher (hint: it will not be one of the children), and doesn’t give it the precise attention to order and detail that I do. So when I find this, I take a few minutes to rearrange all the dirty dishes to be in the right order, thereby saving me a few seconds when it’s time to unload. Yes, I know, I should be tested for a brain worm.
I also place all the silverware business side up, so I know exactly what I’m taking out of there. If I keep all the salad forks in one compartment, all the teaspoons in another, and so on, I can have the utensils put away in 30 seconds. You think that’s anal? You should see my underwear drawer.
At least I don’t go overboard with rinsing off the dishes before I put them in the dishwasher. I take a very literal view of the word “dishwasher.” If I take the time to rinse every bit of broccoli, every speck of spanikopita off a plate, then I am the dishwasher, not this Kenmore carwash for cutlery. (Another of my nicknames is The Alliterator.)
A couple of years ago our vintage harvest gold Whirlpool finally washed its last load, and it was time for a trip to Sears. I found a young salesman in the appliance department, but he was already engaged, mid-pitch, with another couple. They also were there to buy a dishwasher, so I stood nearby, pretending to check out a treadmill (as if), and eavesdropped.
“This Kenmore UltraWash has a food pulverizer, so you don’t have to rinse the dishes before you load them,” the salesman was saying. The couple nodded, impressed. “In fact,” the salesman continued, “the manufacturer says it’s better that you don’t rinse the food off, because if there’s nothing for the enzymatic rinse action to break down, it will start eating into the finish of the dishes.”
Say what now? “I’m sorry,” I interrupted. “Are you saying that we’ll have to feed the dishwasher?” The salesman looked at me, then back at the startled couple.
“Is he with you?”
I wound up buying that very dishwasher, even though I hated the idea of bringing home another mouth to feed. But I’ve learned that not having to rinse the dishes is a major deal sweetener when it comes to persuading the kids to put their own dishes in there. They eat the majority of their meals out of bowls anyway, so I’m slowly ceding control of the upper rack to them and their juice cups, ice tea tumblers and hot chocolate mugs.
But the lower rack remains my domain, and I run a tight ship down there. I’ll get this family whipped into shape when it comes to arranging those dirty plates. Nobody messes with The Packer.
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