Consider Type Bs, the lazy types who quickly eat their food before noon rather than start doing something productive. Just do the dishes. every day. by hand.
I know — how hard and mundane it is. Washing dishes by hand is a chore that even the most hard-working, high-achieving people may find difficult to embrace with glee. Unlike meditation or a cold plunge, hovering over the sink wearing oversized rubber gloves has no aesthetic appeal. Scraping the dried eggs off the pan doesn’t have the same advantage as teasing.
But I tried everything. I took a shower and my nipples were like glass. I woke up at sunrise. I started treatment. As I tapped my face to cleanse my liver, I affirmed to the dark circles under my eyes, “I am worthy.” I kept a diary. I fasted. I also became a yoga teacher and meditated for hours while detoxing all things good.
Ashwagandha tincture microdosing and cryotherapy are good practices in theory, but impractical when you can barely perform daily tasks like changing your oil, shopping for groceries, paying taxes, walking the dog, etc. It’s a habit. Because when you’re in the depths of self-loathing, you don’t have to uproot your entire being. It just requires discipline. Good news? Any discipline is fine.
My husband, a chef, is naturally more disciplined than I am, a quality that became more combative as he entered the strict kitchen hierarchy of the culinary industry. (Opposites really do attract.) Every time we make dinner, he immediately cleans up instead of using the dishwasher.
Of course, only one meal is served for dinner. In 2020, we were cooking at home every day, multiple times a day. I bounced back and forth between extremes, trying biohacks to become the go-getter my parents never had, but ultimately succumbing to well-meaning peer pressure. It is. Instead of avoiding the pile in the sink, instead of collapsing on the couch with a full stomach after every meal, I now face a pile of dirty dishes.
I still felt as if the world was coming to an end, but every day I woke up to a clean kitchen and a clean slate.
It may be extreme not to use the latest home appliances, but it’s important. It forces you to pause and this magical space of mindless productivity is where consistency builds. The force of the tap water transformed plate after plate, glass after glass, which became meditative and an outlet for my nervous and anxious energy.
Chef Gabriel Hamilton says in his memoir Blood, Bones & Butter: “What I’ve loved about cooking all my life, especially preparatory cooking, is that even when my hands are full, my mind is free to organize everything.”
It became meditative, then romantic. Now I watch greasy plates, dirty coffee mugs, silver spoons, and scratched Tupperware eat away at soap suds. The stream of water from the faucet has a purifying effect, washing away their filth, and even my “good morning, hole” coffee mug shines with satisfaction.
We love what we value and value what we love. Instead of groaning at the task of handling a cast iron skillet, I now treat it as a fulfilling act of service. I know that the amount of time I season it with salt and oil will affect its longevity and the taste of future generations. When I scrub the hand-me-down dishes from my father-in-law, I connect with him. Pride has seeped into my kitchen work in unexpected ways. Cleanliness is the rule.
I don’t know why my nature isn’t a detail-oriented workaholic, but I’m sure there are plenty of excuses for that. My parents. My brother and I were both latchkey kids. I’m an old soul constantly feeling crushed by the weight of injustice in the world. My dog ate my Google Docs. Late capitalism is eating away at my will to live.
If you are like me and have lofty dreams, unfortunately none of these excuses will help you. When I started taking care of my world, little by little I realized that I didn’t need to turn it upside down. I had to accept that.
Carl Jung once said, “Modern man cannot see God because the image of God is low enough.”
Can you find God in your kitchen sink? I don’t know, but let me tell you this. I still procrastinate sometimes, but I’m getting better little by little. Last weekend, my husband was busy perfecting his mashed potatoes. I had already baked a carrot cake the night before. Instead of just watching, I helped and washed the dishes.
