My fingers are water-logged.
The cliched phrase for this is "prune-like", but I'll opt for a miniscule, pinker version of South Dakota's badlands. No, I'm not whining about having to do dishes. I'm merely dismayed at the amount of filth in my kitchen.
I'm talking about ice cream bowls that held ice cream that had not only melted, but had evaporated to the point that it was like a puddle of hard candy, adhering the spoon to the bowl. That was the nicest smelling dish I washed.
I tried to guess what people had eaten off of their dishes. Obviously the hardened pasta shells in the iron pot denoted shells and cheese. Someone had made chocolate cake, leaving me spatulas, measuring cups and spoons, bowls, knives, forks, and plates, all covered in chocolate cake, or ingredients of the cake in their previous lives. Rinsing the fourth dish of stiff marinara reiterated my hypothesis of our uniting house love for spaghetti.
I don't know whose idea it was to put all of the flatware and cutlery into a big, filthy pot, making a conglomeration of sharp metal, stagnant water, and mildew. Nothing gets me going in the morning like stabbing my finger on a surprise knife, and pulling it out of the shit water to investigate the cut, only to have it bandaged by a slimy mucosal colony of mildew upon my hand's removal from the water.
As I finished up my job, leaving the caked-on flatware in a coffee-stained mug filled with water to soak, my roommate Elizabeth came down. "I'm almost done!" I told her, excited to have this wretched task almost completed. "It doesn't look like that from over here," she hesitated, pouring a cup of coffee. I looked around the kitchen. What did I miss? There it was - in the corner, above all the un-rinsed recyclables and piles of soggy newspaper: The other sink. The sink everyone dumped their water-filled pots and pans into after cooking up a smelly sauteed-onion-noodle-and-cheese dish. I skimmed over my next victims, in order to estimate how much more time it would take me. Dry crusty egg, cold melted cheese, and yes: mildew. This mildew was beyond any mildew I've seen before. The formation spanned a good eight square feet across the counter next to the sink, below the omelette pans and coffee mugs, spatulas and can openers. It layed there, placidly waiting for it's nastiness to infect me. It was epic. A bright shade of yellow, silhouetted with white and orange; it was remarkable. And all but two of the dishes were laying in it. I looked in the sink, and saw it was clogged again, complete with soup, pasta, and God knows what. Half a sink full of worse-than-hobo-ramen. A I stood over the moldy soup, the smells quickly found their way into my unprotected nostrils. The rancid smell evoked images of restaurant dumpsters, old beer bottles, rotting vegetables, and spoiled yogurt. My vomit reflex flinched. I grabbed the two less tainted dishes and ran back to my post at the other sink. I washed them and placed them atop the mass of other clean dishes, making a mountain within the drying rack that was taller than the rack itself. I wiped down the counter next to the sink, washed my hands, and got the hell out of there.
I just picked a fleck of someone else's dried food off of my arm. And my fingers are still water logged.
The cliched phrase for this is "prune-like", but I'll opt for a miniscule, pinker version of South Dakota's badlands. No, I'm not whining about having to do dishes. I'm merely dismayed at the amount of filth in my kitchen.
I'm talking about ice cream bowls that held ice cream that had not only melted, but had evaporated to the point that it was like a puddle of hard candy, adhering the spoon to the bowl. That was the nicest smelling dish I washed.
I tried to guess what people had eaten off of their dishes. Obviously the hardened pasta shells in the iron pot denoted shells and cheese. Someone had made chocolate cake, leaving me spatulas, measuring cups and spoons, bowls, knives, forks, and plates, all covered in chocolate cake, or ingredients of the cake in their previous lives. Rinsing the fourth dish of stiff marinara reiterated my hypothesis of our uniting house love for spaghetti.
I don't know whose idea it was to put all of the flatware and cutlery into a big, filthy pot, making a conglomeration of sharp metal, stagnant water, and mildew. Nothing gets me going in the morning like stabbing my finger on a surprise knife, and pulling it out of the shit water to investigate the cut, only to have it bandaged by a slimy mucosal colony of mildew upon my hand's removal from the water.
As I finished up my job, leaving the caked-on flatware in a coffee-stained mug filled with water to soak, my roommate Elizabeth came down. "I'm almost done!" I told her, excited to have this wretched task almost completed. "It doesn't look like that from over here," she hesitated, pouring a cup of coffee. I looked around the kitchen. What did I miss? There it was - in the corner, above all the un-rinsed recyclables and piles of soggy newspaper: The other sink. The sink everyone dumped their water-filled pots and pans into after cooking up a smelly sauteed-onion-noodle-and-cheese dish. I skimmed over my next victims, in order to estimate how much more time it would take me. Dry crusty egg, cold melted cheese, and yes: mildew. This mildew was beyond any mildew I've seen before. The formation spanned a good eight square feet across the counter next to the sink, below the omelette pans and coffee mugs, spatulas and can openers. It layed there, placidly waiting for it's nastiness to infect me. It was epic. A bright shade of yellow, silhouetted with white and orange; it was remarkable. And all but two of the dishes were laying in it. I looked in the sink, and saw it was clogged again, complete with soup, pasta, and God knows what. Half a sink full of worse-than-hobo-ramen. A I stood over the moldy soup, the smells quickly found their way into my unprotected nostrils. The rancid smell evoked images of restaurant dumpsters, old beer bottles, rotting vegetables, and spoiled yogurt. My vomit reflex flinched. I grabbed the two less tainted dishes and ran back to my post at the other sink. I washed them and placed them atop the mass of other clean dishes, making a mountain within the drying rack that was taller than the rack itself. I wiped down the counter next to the sink, washed my hands, and got the hell out of there.
I just picked a fleck of someone else's dried food off of my arm. And my fingers are still water logged.
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