The ancient art of dishwasher stacking is dying

My crockery is crocked and I cannot cope!

I believe it is imperative for every man, woman, child, and robot chimpanzee to learn the fundamentals of dishwasher stacking. A word of caution: you never know somebody until you have seen them (attempt to) load dirty dishes into a dishwasher. It can be a life-affirming experience which serves to renew and strengthen your existing bond or it can be earth shatteringly disappointing. More often than not it’s the latter; don’t let anyone tell you dishwasher stacking is not a contentious issue fraught with potential conflict.

There should be a name for the disappointment one feels watching a (former) loved one commit such cardinal sins against dishwashers as grouping the bowls too close together or not scraping the food from the plates properly. Worse still is the terrible depression one experiences upon opening the dishwasher after a delicious meal only to be near knocked over by a foul stench emanating from within. And it’s not just the stench, it’s the visuals: the yawning chasm of the dishwasher opens to reveal plates not stacked in straight lines as well as small plates mixed in with big plates.

All civilised people know that big plates go at the back and small plates go at the front, and you never ever stack bowls too closely together because the water can’t get through the gaps to wash them properly. Like most of my best qualities, to turn matters personal for a moment, I inherited a sense of order — for dishwasher stacking at least — from my parents. When I was a teenager and young adult living at home I never thought of my parents as the epitome of civilised society. These days, as an adult living with housemates I realise I was wrong to underestimate my parents. Never mind the feeding, the clothing, the loving, or the worrying they did and continue to do; they instilled in me such a natural aptitude for dishwasher stacking that I never realised how much this activity, this way of life, this religion, would matter to me on leaving home.

My friends who I live with are wonderful but they are not good at stacking dishwashers. So, they are savages. They are the same age as me and I can’t help wonder if their lack of respect for the noble tradition of correct dishwasher stacking is endemic of a modern cultural distaste for the sacred practices I take for granted. One friend puts the bowls too close together; the other friend mixes up sizes of plates and sometimes stacks them crooked. Not being one to complain or over react I try not to voice my discontent too much even though their actions offend me and my ancestors. I hardly need to add I am a delight to live with.

I’m sure my housemates have heard me mutter strange curses as I spend my evenings re-organising the dishwasher after them. They either laugh at me or blatantly ignore my not too subtle attempts at re-education. This leads me to think they are either wilfully ignorant or they simply do not care about my feelings on the importance of dishwasher stacking. In truth I am quite bothered because if they can’t understand or appreciate my views on dishwasher stacking how will they react to other important philosophies of mine. Sure, life and death isn’t as important as having the perfect dishwasher but it would be nice to agree on those lesser fundamentals too. And while we do, I can’t help but ask myself if there is a more important measure of compatibility than agreeing on how best to stack a dishwasher? I think not. I would go so far as to say there can be no room for disagreement because there is only one correct way to stack a dishwasher and that is my way. I am a liberal in all aspects of my thinking but I am a hardline fundamentalist when matters dishwasher stacking arise.

A life long pacifist I have even considered intervention by violent means to subdue my housemates. Desperate times call for desperate measures and I have, in my darkest hours, briefly fantasised about leaving the odd chopping knife blade pointy end up so it might impale a careless finger. A cardinal sin for a black belt dishwasher stacker like myself. See what they have done to me? One who was once the dishwasher “diamond standard” stacker? That’s my street name in the ‘hood. Should I catch a glimpse of my own visage in a shiny new spoon would I recognise upon its curved, silver surface my own distorted image?

Oh, I don’t know any more.

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