Growing up in a large family always meant there were lots of dishes to be washed. Six members of the family meant a bare minimum of six plates, glasses, knives and forks needing to be cleansed two or three times a day. My parents did not believe in those fancy mechanical dishwashers. Why should they? They had four warm and fleshy dishwashers to employ instead.

Looking back, I can recall with almost perfect clarity, how I came to labor daily over soapy water. I was 8 or 9 and I wanted to help Mommy with the dishes.

"Of course, my darling!" She cooed. I was too young, too innocent to suspect foul play, much less notice the mischievous tone to her voice and the sly smirk on her face.

Alas, because of a moment of charity and conviction, dish duties fell first to me. It is worth a mention that I earned the chore of stacking wood in a much similar fashion. I'll help you with the wood, Dad! Oh how they exploited my good nature!

At 20, I moved out of the nest and out into the cold, cruel world. My first house I shared with Bryn, her mother and some other escentric lady. No dishwasher. A few months later I moved in with my then-boyfriend to a nice cottage in the country. No dishwasher. A year later, then-boyfriend and I moved a mile away to a tiny cabin near a logging road. Guess what? No dishwasher and I continued to scrub dishes by hand, my fingers pruining and my skin drying out.

Two years later, here I am, living with my idiosyncratic, tree-hugging, bohemian sister. We have a dishwasher (also, as an additional bonus, a garbage compressor). I'm afraid to say that I am at a loss. I regard the machine with a certain sort of contempt and despair. I had been doing dishes by hand for so long that I have learned to love it. I admit, it is a love that frightens me in some freakish Orwellian sort of way.

So now what do I do? Nothing! And doing nothing has proven to be pretty effective. The dishes will stack up in the sink for a couple days until they are magically transported into the machine a mere two feet away! I have also chosen not to wonder at this phenomenon but to simply accept it like I've come to accept my sisters dark scowl as she passes through the TV room and into the kitchen.

Eventually, I'll snap out of this dish-washing sloth and go back to being an obsessive-compulsive kitchen nazi. Until then, I am in no hurry.