Feuds at the Kitchen Sink

The most bitter feuds of my childhood took place at the kitchen sink. Getting along with siblings can be tough in any setting, but especially when you work just inches from each other in a cook-from-scratch kitchen that feeds nine people three times a day.

We soldiered through stacks of plates and mounds of pots and pans, each of us assigned a job: scraping, washing, rinsing, drying, putting away, and sweeping under the table. As the wash water darkened and tea towels dampened, we issued forth a barrage of complaints–scraped dishes still gunky, washed dishes dirty, rinsed dishes soapy, dried dishes crowding the counter. Someone was sure to be sniffling or whistling off key or making faces.

But this was only some of the time.

Other times it was us against the dishes. Shoulder to shoulder, we tackled a messy kitchen . . . and more. With eyes on the dishes, it was easier to talk about what it was like to be the only Mennonite kid in our classes, how we could cope in the year 1984 when Big Brother would be watching, and how infinity could go on and on and on. Perhaps the simple, repetitive nature of washing dishes gave us the courage to admit our angst.

Those may have been the good-old days. But these days, I’m grateful for a dishwasher. During our family’s staycation this summer, the fourteen of us each loaded our own plates into the dishwasher. And while it washed and rinsed and dried, and achieved a level of sanitation far greater than that of the long-ago kitchen, we played Frisbee golf and visited a cave and coerced the grandchildren into reading at a poetry slam.

Troubled thoughts didn’t stop when people found they could survive 1984. There’s still infinity. And the feeling of standing alone. And adults coercing cool teens into poetry slams.

But I’ve seen my grandchildren pound out anxieties on cross-country trails and basketball courts. I’ve heard them in deep discussion on late-night road trips in dark vans. Dishwater isn’t the only place to shed angst.