Concerning Dish-Washing

"Concerning Dish-Washing" by Charles Battell Loomis is a humorous and insightful essay that reflects on the often-overlooked task of washing dishes. Loomis uses wit and charm to explore the cultural and personal significance of this everyday chore, weaving anecdotes and observations into a lighthearted narrative. The work combines humor with philosophical musings, encouraging readers to consider the deeper meanings behind mundane activities while celebrating the simple joys of domestic life.

• Short story

								
Has the reader ever considered how much time is wasted every day by
busy women in the work of washing dishes? Of course, if a man has
plenty of money and, from philanthropic motives, engages a girl to
perform this unpleasant--I had almost said “duty”--this unpleasant
task, I suppose we cannot, strictly speaking, regard her time as
wasted, for she might else be loafing in an intelligence-office
without gaining a scrap of that article. I refer to the lives led
by weary housewives who, having no aid from a hired housemaid, day
out and day in will make themselves thin by the never-ceasing and
perfectly useless grind of dish-washing; for the dishes don’t stay
clean for more than a few hours.

For years I ate my meals in selfish content, little recking at what
cost the clean service was gained, until I discovered that my sister,
who is also my housekeeper, had sold her piano, not having time to
play upon it. I was shocked to think what a power this custom of
dish-washing had over the minds of the feminine portion of our public.

But this dreadful waste of time that is going on in thousands of
homes in this country every day was brought home to me in a still
more striking manner not long after. My sister went away to visit a
friend, and left me to keep bachelor’s hall. I had always had a good
taste for cooking, although hitherto my practice had been confined
to boiling eggs and buttering hot toast on a plate at the back of
the stove. The first meal that I prepared, a breakfast, consisted of
oatmeal, steak, fried potatoes, bread, butter, milk, and water. We
will pass over the meal itself, as its discussion is foreign to our
purpose. Indeed, the less said about it the better. It was nine when
I had finished eating, and dumped my dishes and knives and forks into
tepid water. I am a fast worker, but the clock in the neighboring
church had ceased striking twelve when my last dish was wiped and put
away.

I had hoped to do a little writing that morning, but it was now
time to get luncheon. Luckily, that meal called into play very few
dishes, and by two, or half-past, I had made an end of my second
stint. Feeling elated that I had a whole afternoon on my hands, I
prepared a course dinner. I found some cold soup in the refrigerator,
and I bought a bluefish, five or six pounds of beef for roasting,
some Parker House rolls, and a lemon-pie for dessert. There were
lettuce and eggs in the house, and plenty of canned vegetables. I
also made some good coffee, with the aid of a French coffee-pot, that
indispensable adjunct of a well-ordered household. I found that the
courses were very hard to manage so that they would follow in their
proper order. They weren’t even satisfied to finish together like
evenly matched racers, but the roast was burned five minutes before I
thought of warming up the soup, and ten minutes before I had scaled
the fish. Then the latter wouldn’t broil readily until most of it
was in the fire. The vegetables I forgot entirely, and I decided at
the last moment to deny myself the salad, as dinner was waiting and
I was hungry. I might add that I inadvertently cut the pie with the
fish-knife, and that cast a damper on the dessert. However, as I
said, the coffee was good--and, anyhow, I am digressing.

It was seven when I emptied my dishes into the water, and I worked
with a will, as I had a very exciting novel that I was desirous
of finishing. It was a few minutes past eleven when I emptied my
dish-pan for the last time, and then I was ripe for bed.

As time wore on I became more dexterous in the use of the dish-cloth
and -towel, and the day before sister returned I devoted but six
hours to dish-washing. To be sure, I had given up course dinners,
because they took too many plates, and for other reasons that need
not to be quoted here.

As I say, I am a fast worker, and yet it took me over six hours a
day to clean the crockery. Assuming that a woman can do it in eight
hours, she wastes half of her waking moments in drudgery beside which
the making of bricks without straw would be a pastime.

There is absolutely nothing in the dish-washing habit to recommend
it. It is ruinous to hands and temper, and, indeed, I do not see
but that it is immoral. Anything that puts us in the proper mood for
swearing is immoral, and there is nothing in the whole housekeeping
routine so conducive to highly spiced language as dish-washing.

And to what purpose is this waste of time? I won’t go so far as to
advocate a return to the fingers that were used before forks for the
purpose of conveying food to the mouth, for that would but relieve
us from the washing of cutlery; but I will say that the man who will
invent a cheap yet very ornate dinner service that may be destroyed
after once using will have earned the undying gratitude of the women
of this country and a princely fortune besides.

And when he has invented it, sister may go on another visit.
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