Just don’t mention the big, dirty pot
In our house, there is an unspoken battle of wills. If you walk
by, and don’t say anything, you’re
”
not it.
”
As long as you can stand it; seeing the big pot in the sink
that’s been filled with water that is now ice cold, with a thin
film of suds on top, indicating that the person who did this
”
intended
”
to wash it, eventually. First, it is incredibly important that
it is left to
”
soak
”
to get all of the cooked on stuff off and even more importantly,
to be able to watch the football game before doing the dishes.
Just don’t mention the big, dirty pot
In our house, there is an unspoken battle of wills. If you walk by, and don’t say anything, you’re “not it.” As long as you can stand it; seeing the big pot in the sink that’s been filled with water that is now ice cold, with a thin film of suds on top, indicating that the person who did this “intended” to wash it, eventually. First, it is incredibly important that it is left to “soak” to get all of the cooked on stuff off and even more importantly, to be able to watch the football game before doing the dishes.
I hate this pot for this reason, but The Husband insists on dragging it out for his special chili recipe and home-made spaghetti sauce (which is really just doctored up Hunt’s brand, right out of the can). Not me. I can cram two cans of sauce in a smaller pot, with all of the same ingredients that The Husband would use, save the mess after. He likes leftovers, hence the Big A-pot.
This pot is so big that it won’t fit in the dishwasher and reminds me of something that The Husband’s unit in the Army would have used to serve the masses that nutritious (read gelatinous) gravy for S.O.S. (for you newbies out there, that’s S–t on a Shingle) night in the mess hall.
This time, the pot had held a ridiculous amount of macaroni and cheese. I’d walked past it now for two days, in various stages of soaking. I didn’t say anything, because then I would be “it.” The one who had to clean it, dry it and put it away. No way. Not this time. I cleaned the counters, the kitchen table, the stove and even the sink around the pot. I also polished the faucet after moving it from over the top of the pot. I was careful not to add more water to the pot, because that would mean that I was the last person to touch it. Also grounds for being “it.”
When I was done, the kitchen shone. Except for the pot that you could still see in the sink. Soaking.
I’d seen The Husband go into the kitchen a few times; a glass of water, a soda. From my perch on the couch with my favorite reading material, (that would be The Pottery Barn Christmas season catalog) I listened carefully for water either being put into or taken out of the pot. Nothing. I smiled at him on his way back to the loveseat. He smiled at me. It was becoming the elephant in the room.
A few hours later, The Husband offered to do the grocery shopping and even take the kids with him. It was just as well. I could finish my chores without anyone coming up behind me and undoing my hard work. He’s really a pretty nice guy, I thought to myself after they all left.
I stood back and surveyed the finished product about a half an hour later. All that was left to do was relax. Until I went into the kitchen for a drink. I sighed. Okay, I’ll do it. I picked up the heavy pot, and dumped the gallons of water down the sink. It wasn’t draining very fast. I waited a second or two, thinking I’d just poured the water out too fast. It wasn’t budging. I reached over and flipped the switch for the garbage disposal, hoping to get the water moving. A geyser of macaroni and water flew up out of the other side of the sink in true cartoon fashion. Coating the counters, cabinets, the window behind the sink, the refrigerator, and worst of all-Tag! I was it.
