In the end, the dishwasher died, not with a bang, but a whimper.
Its demise began long ago, albeit with the most innocuous of symptoms.
A doohickey fell off the upper basket, causing the thing to tilt to one side. Certainly not a fatal issue, but a problem nonetheless.
Another doohickey came off the silverware holder, meaning it wouldn't stay shut.
Then something happened with the drain. It wouldn't.
The dishwasher would try to tell us it was done, but when we moved in to empty the glasses and the plates and the pots and pans, it clearly was not.
The bottom would be full of water.
We developed what we called a "stop-gap" solution. By this, I mean we took to bailing with a measuring cup.
Let me tell you, no fun there.
And then: the end. I loaded up the dishwasher one day, threw in the detergent and turned it on.
It made a little noise, a noise that did not resemble its usual soft and steady purr. And then it stopped.
I tried again. Same thing.
We called in the pros, and were told the motor was busted.
"I guess we get a new one," said the husband.
"I don't know when we'll look," I pointed out. "We're away the next two weekends."
The husband groaned. He was, I am guessing, imagining himself elbow deep in dirty dish water.
I put out the word to the sons, and taped a notice on the dead appliance. I NO LONGER WORK, it read. DO NOT PUT DISHES IN ME. WASH THEM BY HAND.
It had been, oh, 30-odd years since I had been without a dishwasher. Major first-world problem, of course, but still. The family felt inconvenienced.
"Wait a minute!" I hollered to the son one day when he was about to head to a friend's. "You haven't washed your dishes!" Ditto with the husband. He'd have yogurt for breakfast, toast as a midmorning snack and a tuna sandwich for lunch.
By 3 p.m., I'd confront him.
"Your dishes are still in the sink," I'd point out. "Are you waiting for me to wash them?" "Of course not," he'd say. "I thought we could do them later. You know, together. With a glass of wine and the music cranked."
So after dinner, we tried that. And yes, it was moderately enjoyable.
By 3 p.m. the next day, the sink was again full.
"Wine and music?" I inquired.
"Of course!" the husband replied. "It will be a blast!"
It was, well, just the tiniest bit enjoyable. A blast, it was not.
By day 11, however, it felt nothing like a party, and not even the slightest bit fun.
I eyeballed the sink full of dishes, and made a unilateral decision.
We'd take the money we were spending on wine, and buy an appliance instead.
