It freaks me out.
Like the other night Peter and I came home from having dinner and Hallie and her friend Chloe were sitting at the counter looking at old year books from their days at Proctor. The books were perched upon various and sundry items on the counter and my first thought was, "does anyone even SEE all of this stuff?" and my second thought was, "this kitchen is a disaster and I can't take it anymore."
How did it happen? It had been days since Christmas ... when I had logged in countless hours in the kitchen preparing fabulous and sumptious meals. I'd used pots, pans, plates, silverware, bowls, mixing spoons, spatulas, the mixer, the Cuisinart. I'd had ingredients all over the place. But ... my mother had been there throughout, constantly washing and cleaning, cleaning and washing, (you know, you fill a glass of water, take a sip, put it down, go for another sip, it's been washed. Or even worse, you have two big fry pans that you browned the pounded and breaded chicken in earlier and it's ready to create a most lovely sauce ... and it gets washed.) But I digress. The point is, my mother keeps that kitchen so clean you can see your reflection in the gleaming sink.
So, if I hadn't cooked in there, hadn't touched a pot, pan, etc. how did it get so bad? There were pizza boxes on the counter, bottles, cans, wrapping paper, ribbon, piles of papers (these spawn themselves, I am sure of it) ratty raggy dishtowels that had been places I didn't want to think about and crumbs.
The bottom line is the kitchen was a big sucky mess that had been spotless the last time I'd had anything to do with it. So what did I do? Cleaned the damn thing. Emptied the dishwasher, loaded the dishwasher, scrubbed at spots on the counter that were disgusting and solid, swore a little, drank some more wine, turned on the dishwasher and left the kitchen.
The next morning it was like I had dreamt it all. Dreamt all the cleaning that is. Somehow things had managed to get out of the cupboards and shelves and there were things everywhere. Everywhere! Not a single part of the counter was uncluttered. I hate clutter. I HATE IT HATE IT HATE IT. My kitchen is rigged. To undermine my sanity.
Plain as that.
So begins the banter in my brain: Do I clean it? Why? What is the point? It will be like this again in hours, as soon as I turn my back. It is probably best to just leave all those evil cupboard-dwelling, paper spawning, mess making mysteries that are out to drive me insane alone! Let them be. Perhaps I should move!
The thing is, they've been at every house I've ever lived in. Even the ones without children. It's horrible. I think the only solution to this disaster is to live in a house with no kitchen.
I'm game!
