I have never had to wash my dishes by hand. Every non-dorm place I have ever lived in has had a dishwasher, until now. This makes for an interesting adjustment.
Luckily, I have a sink that is very conducive to quick and efficient washing, if you feel like being serious about things. It’s a small double sink, so you can very quickly flood one of ‘em with soapy water, dump the dishes in, go at it all with a brush or whatever your own favorite implement of destruction is, then rinse in the other sink, and then dump everything into the drying tray on the counter next to the sink.
I did some semi-serious cooking this evening, so it called for some semi-serious dishwashing. I was in the middle of the aforementioned procedure when I flashed back to when I was sixteen. I used to work eight hour dishwashing shifts at San Diego’s Sea World
. In the summertime, during tourist season. Back then, I had three very large sinks in my arsenal, along with a dedicated garbage disposal that had its own mini-sink. Plus industrial soap, and bleach that I could use for sanitizing things in the third sink, if protocol required it and I felt relatively un-mistreated by my employer that day.
So tonight I was scrubbing a small sauté pan when some long-forgotten muscle memory kicked in, and my hands awakened and reminded me that years ago, I would scrub ten-gallon copper caramel pots and such for days and days. I tripped on that for a bit, standing there in my tiny kitchen here at the new digs, washing dishes by hand for the first time in a dozen years.