It’s not necessarily a standoff, but there’s a bit of a “war” that goes on between me and my loving husband. It involves cleaning things. Things in the kitchen, to be exact.
Several years ago, when we were co-habitating in Chicago, Scott bought a $20 cast-iron skillet from Service Merchandise. The store was right next to our gym so we’d browse from time to time. I’ve never seen him quite so happy as when he nabbed that skillet. He carried it home and promptly seasoned it. He’s treated it with loving care from that day on.
I guess such cooking items are not to be washed with soap. For some reason, this minor detail has created in me a desire NOT to wash the skillet. It seems like such a hassle. Even though I use the skillet in question all the time. ALL the time. I use it, scoop out the meal, then leave it for him to clean. Seems fair, doesn’t it?
In retaliation, I’m guessing, he’s decided he doesn’t like cleaning our new stove. We bought it when we remodeled our kitchen nearly three years ago. It’s sweet. No burner elements to lift, no catch trays beneath the burners to scour. It’s a smooth cooktop that requires a special cleaner you can grab at any store Â— just rub it in, wipe it off, then buff.
For him, that’s a hassle. Especially when you throw in my personal brand of pickiness Â— no streaks, please. Too much to ask? I don’t think so. It only takes me about two minutes to get it clean. He rubs a sponge over it and calls it quits, leaving behind plenty of cooked-on goo and grime. And streaks, of course.
It’s fair, I suppose, that we each have one item we simply refuse to clean. Or that we clean half-heartedly. But I decided to be a nice wife tonight. I cleaned that darn skillet. Without the soap. Honest.