For those who read my last blog post, you probably have figured out that I hate unloading the dishwasher. I think it stems back to my early childhood when it was the very first household job I was given. I must have been six or seven.
I can remember being at my family's house at Pawley's Island having a marvelous time laughing and playing with my sister and mother on my mother's king-size bed. It was such fun! But then... she dropped the bomb: "Girls, go unload the dishwasher for Mama. I am too tired, and you are big girls now. Now, go!" Anne Stuart (aged 3 or 4 at the time) and I glumly trudged to the kitchen, where we dragged the fifty-year-old chairs to the cabinets so that we could put away the fifty-year-old dishes from the practically fifty-year-old dishwasher. It took forever. It was painful. It was absurd! But this became our job, and amazingly, we never broke a glass or dish.
Nowadays I don't unload the dishwasher anymore. I have this fabulous Bosch model that cleans beautifully, and does little more than hum. You'd never know it was on! Doesn't change the fact that I detest unloading it. I have passed that task to my two sons. For some reason, they don't seem to have the same disdain I had. It must be because I tell them that whoever will unload it first gets to choose top or bottom. And the race is on! Throw a little competition in any chore and they are hooked!
Have they cracked any of our Tervis Tumblers (however so indestructible) or broken any of my everyday Wedgewood Nantucket Basket dishes? Not yet... thank goodness!