27 February 2013
Not to get too uncharacteristically mawkish, but I’m going to take a quick moment to pause and celebrate the past 19 beautiful, crazy, unforgettable months, which make everything before them seem like but a distant memory.
Dear, cheap dishwasher, I never want to be without you again.
You make even botched cooking experiments bearable. ”At least I don’t have to do the dishes!” I can chortle as I plunk a Pyrex casserole dish with baked-on whatever into the bottom rack.
You mean that I no longer need to end my days facing a stack of dirtied silverware. (Washing large prep bowls and pans by hand is no problem, but wiping out and rinsing a stack of forks and spoons? Tedious.)
You keep all of the bajillionty little plastic components of Theo’s actually-pretty-largely-leakproof straw cups sanitized and free of milk gunk residue.
You mean that I can clean up meals by chucking plates in the bottom rack and cackling, “Clean for me, robot!”
Dear dishwasher: my life will never be the same.