Scullery Note:
Permission
26 March 2019

ΒΆ When dinner is over, I say “Let’s go back to the bedroom.” Mutiny. Let the dishes take care of themselves for once. 

We took up living in the bedroom when my foot was on the fritz, and the comfy habit is hard to break. We were also watching Inspector MorseLewis, and finally Endeavour; although there’s a video setup in the living room, we don’t use it very often, preferring to watch things in bed or (for me) the comfort of my reading chair.

Kathleen returns to reading the Times, taking along the remains, if any, of her Arnold Palmer. 

I always plan to join her as soon as I’ve taken my apron off, and I do, except that my apron stays on for a while. There is almost always something, such as a bowl of grated Parmesan cheese, that needs to stored in the refrigerator right away. Usually, the next thing I know, I’ve rinsed everything and loaded the dishwasher, and, at that point, why not do the handwashing? (Steaknives, for example.) Presently, it’s all done, and when I take off the apron there is nothing left but to take the garbage down the hall to the chute. Then I join Kathleen, who is still working through the newspaper. 

It’s curiously relieving to give myself permission to let the dishes sit until later, even if I know that I’m probably not going to avail myself of it. 

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