I have always found the action of sweeping my kitchen floors to be soothing, although by the third round of tending animal fluff in a day it can get a bit repetitive. I’m thinking it’s the gentle side to side rocking that’s relaxing, sort of like the motions we made when we were learning the song Kumbaya in the 1960s. Or maybe it’s the TV depictions of long-ago shopkeepers tending their entryways with straw brooms before their customers arrived on horseback that has romanticized the task. Or the cheery baristas who sweep their bright patios in Italy as a new day gets underway.
Whatever the reason, I’m grateful I don’t mind this task because I’m pretty cold in my relationship with most other household chores. The pained routine of loading into and out of the dishwasher, for instance, makes me ponder the meaning of life. And if there’s confusion about whether it’s dirty or clean inside and a saucy plate comes to contaminate the whole newly-washed load, I’m forced to simply lift my hands in surrender and walk away. That said, I do try to respect the dishwasher because there was a time before I owned one when I was convinced having one would solve all the problems of my marriage and lead to world peace.
It’s pretty much all other kitchen tasks that challenge my sense of well-being. I’ve already lamented over several columns about my well-known dislike of cooking and find it confusing that it’s such a popular hobby. I’m also thankful, of course, having been the beneficiary of many a fine meal prepared by others’ hands.
One kitchen duty I do honour, though, is grocery shopping. I consider it a privilege to even have the opportunity to stock my fridge in my own home, of course, given the high costs and food insecurity that deprive so many people. Remembering to bring my reusable bags can detract from the experience at times, as can the ticker shock at the till, but over all I very much appreciate the act of replenishing.
Laundry can create a bit of a conundrum over likes and dislikes. I enjoy folding warm towels straight from the dryer and… well, that’s about it for the likes column. Oh, and socks are fairly satisfying, if you can find a match. Choosing a clothes detergent that won’t irritate sensitive skin but still does the trick, feeling guilty about mixing colours and whites, dealing with the complicated task of emptying dog hair from a mysterious closed-door filter that I didn’t even know existed until two years ago – it all challenges my equilibrium. Presumably there is a further step in the laundry process that involves ironing, which is an urban legend that I’ve never bought into.
My mom used to enjoy folding laundry, even when the four of us kids were growing up and there were heaps of it. I remember her singing her tra la la jingles as she sat on the living room couch tending the piles of clothes. She was sold on ironing, too, especially dad’s office shirts and hankies (she tried to gain my buy-in to the whole concept of ironing by letting me practice on those reusable cloth tissues when I turned five, but the allure faded quickly when I wrestled with my first handkerchief).
She ironed like it was a spa day in her kitchen. The little white plastic radio would be playing country songs on the counter, dad’s work shirts would be sprinkled with tap water and rolled up carefully to allow for just the right dampness, so as to create steam ironing long in advance of that invention. They would be softly stacked alongside the radio, looking like fresh loaves of bread. She would carefully lift the one on top and hold onto the centre of the collar before miraculously snapping the whole shirt open with a stern whip of her wrist. I would lay under the ironing board and watch as the shirts were pulled nearer to me when each portion’s ironing was complete, the smell of fresh laundry filling my senses and my mom’s smiling face peering down at me from far beyond.
In retrospect, perhaps I should be considering household chores not as the items that need to be addressed as quickly as possible, but by the humans that I love who are being nurtured by my actions.