A few short weeks ago I treated myself: I purchased a brand spanking new pressure cooker.
I can happily tell you that it is dishwasher safe! That is, except for the rubber ring and the very clever detachable handle. I really like things that can go in the dishwasher as I am totally useless at washing up. I’m the one who misses bits. Even rather large bits. As the oldest in our household, I make the most of it and blame it on my aging eyes. And then, when there are things that can’t go in the dishwasher I encourage other household members to get involved. Scrub a pan. Lift a finger. That kind of thing.
So I got my shiny new pan and I started using it right away and as I did so I informed the household: detachable handle and rubber ring do not go into the dishwasher.
Last night, as usual, my husband went to bed before me.
I took my medicine, put the dishwasher on and shovelled washing into the washing machine. Then I headed to bed. Woke my husband up to tell him some important fact or other. Don’t worry, he always falls asleep straight afterwards, as is one of his many talents. I brushed my teeth and then climbed into bed. Where I contemplated how to get to sleep and came up with the only answer I could think of: I stalked estate agents for a bit.
I woke up this morning. Bright and early. Because, of course, it’s a Sunday. I tried to curl up and get back to sleep. Then I lay there for a moment or two envying my out for the count husband. Finally, I admitted defeat and shuffled out of our bedroom.
Downstairs I pottered for a bit. Then hovered over a few other estate agents’ websites. After that I contemplated what to purchase on Amazon. Was thrown by the sheer volume of choice and so did a puzzle instead.
My husband rose and shone. Being less of a potterer than me, he headed straight to the dishwasher. He’s a get the job done kind of a guy.
I heard him shout, “Somebody’s put the rubber ring from your pressure cooker into the dishwasher!”
“What?” I shrieked.
Panic rose within me.
Then he carried the lid through. “They didn’t even dismantle it from the lid. Look!” I heard the disdain in his voice. I blinked and looked at the pot. Rubbed my head. Thought.
“It was me,” I whispered. “It was me.”
As it turns out: luckily I hadn’t actually remembered to switch the dishwasher on…
My husband dismantled the ring. Offered to make me breakfast. To reorganise my world. Then I heard his voice again, probing from the kitchen:
“Somebody’s put washing up liquid in the frying pan and just left it like that. On the cooker.”
I know exactly what that “Somebody” means.
It means: one of our teenagers has done this. I am not sure which one. But I am incredulous. I do not understand them. Why have they done this?
My mind races. I retrace my steps from last night. The dishwasher… A quick rub down of the tabletops… The washing up liquid… The pan… The water? The water? Nope. No water.
“I’m sorry. It was me.” I swallowed.
He looked at me. Kind face. Wide eyes. “You must have been tired, ” he said.
And I just thought, bloody hell, I’d better go and check out the state of the laundry room.