One of my regular chores around the household is to empty the dishwasher of clean dishes and then put them away in their correct locations in the kitchen and dining-room cupboards. Each time I pull out the rack of sparkling-clean dishware and look down at it, the day's puzzle begins.
If we used the same dishes and cutlery every day, the problem probably wouldn't exist. But my partner is a gourmet cook and food-preparationist of considerable skill who has collected a wide range of cooking implements.
Therein lies the rub. With every new load of clean dishes, there always seems to be at least one utensil, sometimes more, that I can't identify as to where it belongs. Sometimes there are implements I can't even identify as kitchen hardware.
At this point I usually start looking through the cupboards, hoping to find another example of the questionable utensil. If I don't, we could be in trouble.
Did this somehow get stuck in the dishwasher by mistake? Does it actually belong out in the garage in my toolbox? Maybe it has something to do with lawn care?
All the really mysterious stuff gets put off to the side until my partner can offer me some guidance. "How long have you lived here?" will come the inquiry. "Don't you know yet which drawer the left-handed apple-peeler goes in?"
Then, several years ago, our dear feline, Emmy Lou, came to live with us. That, of course, has necessitated a whole new collection of dishes. On shopping trips, or even during casual strolls through gift shops, my partner always keeps her eyes peeled for feline-shaped little feed plates.
After all, the cat needed her own set of bowls and plates. (The plates had to be cat-sized; they're about the dimensions of what used to be called butter plates.)
During the past few months, the accumulation of "kitty crockery" has moved an entire section of "people dishes" off a shelf in the kitchen cupboard. I usually have no trouble recognizing the cat stuff as I pull it out of the dishwasher. Most of the bowls have a kitty face drawn on the bottom, or the plates have the rough general shape of a kitty, so they get stacked on their appropriate pile.
It's just that the soup bowls and some of the saucers have been moved into their own little, cramped section of the cupboard.
Wasn't there a line somewhere in literature about cats drinking from a saucer of milk? A simple saucer should suffice - why does our spoiled kitty need her own complete set of dishes?
I've just noticed that at Christmastime, our dear Emmy now has a special, cat-sized bowl for her water that's made of fired pottery and exactly matches the Christmas pattern on the "good" people-dishes that are used during the holidays.
C'mon, how important is it that the cat's water bowl on a sheet of newspaper out in the kitchen matches the dishes we all are using for the Christmas meal at the table in the dining room? Is this cat taking over too much of our lives?
Every few hours, when Emmy is awake, she'll make an inspection tour throughout the house. She has a regular route she takes through each room, just to see if anybody has moved anything during her latest nap.
The holidays always pique her curiosity: not only was there that phony tree, but there were strange-smelling candles that might, or might not, be burning all around the house. Her usual route was now filled with a plethora of new sights and smells. She had to rub against each new thing that was put under the tree.
It's nightly, though, that Emmy decides what belongs and what doesn't belong on the countertops as she makes one of her inspection rounds. We've learned that each night, before we go to bed, we have to make a quick check around to see if there's anything that might be even remotely likely to end up on the floor.
Two or three years ago, one night as Emmy made her rounds, she discovered the ornate Christmas pottery teapot that our entire Christmas set of dishes centers on. She decided that even though it was in the center of the counter, it was much too close to the counter's edge. By putting her shoulder to it, she could move the half-full teapot the two feet of countertop to throw it over the edge.
Awakened by the horrible crash in the kitchen, we both rushed as hurriedly as you can at about 4 in the morning into the kitchen. We discovered Emmy sitting off to one side with a wide-eyed look of complete innocence on her face.
"What's up, guys?" she seemed to be questioning.
We still haven't replaced the teapot.
Freelance columnist Gary McDaniel is a Magnolia resident.
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