I’ve been making quite a bit of soap this week. Lots of soap-making equals lots of dirty dishes, though not all of my making.
For some reason, when I stack my soap-making pots and bowls beside the sink, letting the raw soap age 24 hours for ease of cleaning, everyone else in my family thinks it’s a dirty dish free-for-all. Cups, plates, bowls, and silverware poorly hide themselves behind and between my legitimate vessels, multiplying each time I turn my attention elsewhere.
When the dish mountain reaches a certain height, I reach my limit. Then the same little drama plays out in my kitchen. I pitch a not so little fit, directed at whomever is in screeching range, stating that I should not have to be responsible for the dirty tableware of six other people. My drama is met by large eyes, blank faces, and a vanishing audience.
With a sigh of resignation, I face the mountain alone.
Except this week, the drama ended a bit differently. I sorted the jumble, pulled out my dishpan, reached for the dish soap. And found that the bottle was empty.
Evidence that at least one of those blank faces must have washed something.
I momentarily felt chagrined. But only for a very brief moment, as I immediately realized that one of those same blank faces did not notify me or any other responsible adult that the bottle was empty.
My wrath was vindicated. And dishes were going to get done.
If you’ve read my post, Lye Soap Use #8 – Washing Dishes, then you know that lack of dish liquid doesn’t slow me down.
I started the hot water. I pulled out a cake of lye soap and knife, cutting the block into smaller chunks. Dropping them into the water, the chunks plunked at they hit the bottom of the dishpan and they started softening, waiting for the first dirty dish. Then I began to soften as I remembered my Grandma and one of her stories.
Grandma Pauline
My Grandma Pauline was the oldest daughter in a family of eight. So, in a family that size, it’s no surprise that her mother, my Great-Grandma Jennie, gave Grandma Pauline a lot of responsibilities. One of those responsibilities was dish washing.
To fully understand the mother-daughter dynamic playing out in this story, you need to know that my Great-Grandmother did not like housework. She much preferred being outside, working in her flower beds, or making a mess working in the kitchen baking. But she did not enjoy doing the clean-up.
I am sure this is a recessive genetic trait and transferred with one of the Y chromosomes. Proof? Great-Grandma passed this same trait on to me. Sigh.
Back to Grandma Pauline.
Her mother entrusted her with all the dish washing. And when I say all the dish washing, I mean all the dish washing. Meal after meal, day after day, year after year, little Pauline washed up all the dishes.
Until one summer day she’d had enough. She could hear her siblings outdoors, laughing and playing. She could hear the voices of her friends joining in the fun. And here she was, once again, faced with a pile of dirty dishes.
She stacked them up, opened the oven door, shoved them in, and didn’t look back. Grandma Pauline spent the next few blissful hours playing her friends.
In time, she came back inside with a smile and satisfied sigh. Grandma Pauline opened the oven door and removed the stacks of dishes. She started the hot water, pulled out a cake of lye soap and started on the first dirty dish.
Great-Grandma Jennie never knew. Nor did Grandma Pauline ever stick dishes in the oven again.
I never could quite figure out that part of the story. Why in the face of such liberating success would you not make oven-stashing a habit? Clearly Grandma had a higher moral sense…and more common sense….than me.
And another part of this story that I could never make sense of…Grandma always told me this story as she was standing in front of a sink of soapy water doing dishes. She would look at me with her twinkly-eyed smile and conclude her story with, “You know, I really do like to do dishes.”
I said my final goodbye to Grandma Pauline just four weeks ago. At 94 years old, she had lived the ups and downs of life in a beautiful and graceful way. I was beyond blessed to call her my grandmother.
I just wish she’d shared her dish washing gene with me.
Granny Slagle's 180 Lye Soap
