Hand washing socks

If you know me for more than a few minutes, you know that I knit. And after that, you'll quickly learn that I especially like to make socks. I can wax rhapsodic about the joys of custom fit hand knitted socks.

Yes, I know that you can buy ten pair for $12.00 at Target. And that those socks are easily tossed and replaced without a moment's thought. I also acknowledge that handmade socks cost more in terms of the price of the yarn and the time involved in making them. But, plain old cotton crew socks cannot hold a candle to handmade, hand dyed, wool/silk socks.

With this luxury comes an obligation to the care of one's socks. While some of them are made from machine washable wool, most require getting right into the sink with them and scrubbing. Generally, I wait until I am almost out of socks before I engage in the great sock wash.

I take the basket containing the dirties to the bathroom sink and fill it with very warm water. And, for reasons passing understanding, I use the liquid Kiss My Face soap on them. So, I submerse a few socks and pump on the soap. As I rub each sock with soap, attempting to dislodge unseen dirt, I notice again the stitches, the texture and the feel of the knitted fabric. Most of the socks are not particularly delicate but I'm aware of wanting to take care not to felt the yarn as I scrub. Scrubbing hard enough, and yet not too hard, to get the job done.

As I scrub, rinse and wring out, my mind wanders to the lesson of the socks. The difficulty of rinsing the soap out completely, the need to be firm yet gentle, the repeated movement to get the task done.

And I consider that we are all like handmade socks. We each are made of different materials and yet still have the same form. Some of us are hearty wool work socks, perhaps not as pretty as others but strong and durable. Others are silky lace socks that are beautiful but require extra care. Then there are the colorful ones which allow for a bit of self-expression that would never be found in a larger garment. We all get dirty, to one degree or another, by what our life takes us through. We all need special care and careful attention in order to restore ourselves to a more pristine state. We can't take too much hot water or too much agitation. And occasionally, life rubs a hole that cannot be darned.

I hang the socks to dry and hear them drip as I clean the sink. Then I reach for my needles again.

Washing Dishes - View 2

I pop the baking into the oven and turn to survey the damages. Not too bad. I turn on the tap and fiddle with it until the water is pleasantly warm.

I begin with all the measuring devices; the spoons and the cups. Very small, very little effort. I look out the window and notice a hummingbird skirting around the camelia bush. I thought it was too late in the year for hummingbirds but there he is and then he's gone.

Next comes the mixing bowls. The flour-y one is quickly disposed of. The one that held the batter takes a bit more attention. A new bird grabs my attention; a flicker climbing on the back fence. I've never seen one this close before. I turn my attention to the various spoons and utensils that I used for mixing and then I'm done. I de-flour the counter and put away everything I washed.

Bing! And the baking is ready to come out. After it cools, I wash the baking pan and the cooling rack. I ask myself what is the difference between this washing up and the previous washing up. There is more of a connection to the action but why? Could it be that it isn't washing but part of the baking? Could it be that it was a controllable amount of washing? Or could it be that my mind was more open to being connected at this time? And, if that is the case, how do I become connected and opened to the less appealing acts of washing?

I strongly suspect that the answer lies within myself and not in the dirty dishes.

Washing Dishes - View 1

Every glass in the house is dirty and both the sink and the counter are piled with dishes. I could blame yesterday's migraine but the dishes got out of control without benefit of an excuse. So, with a heavy sigh, I turn on the hot tap and decide on a plan of attack.

The water is almost too hot, not quite burning my hands, but the delay in washing makes me want to attack the bacteria with murderous intent. The water flows unevenly through the tap making an irregular rhythm as it splashes over its targets. Adding the dish soap, I start in with the glasses, being the least disgusting items in need of cleaning. The slide of water and soap on glass is fun and soothing. There is no other adjective except soapy to describe the feeling of soap. It is its own unique feeling, sliding and slipping across the surface of the glasses.

Then I tackle the dishes, scrubbing away at a bowl with something orange stuck on it. What is that? Did we even eat anything orange colored? And now, scrubbing at something I can feel, but not see, smack in the middle of a plate. If I can't see it, why do I care? What could it hurt? But scrub I do. And, when it finally can be felt no more, I smile.

Bringing up the rear, come the pots. There are only a couple of them but they take more work inside and out. I add more soap to cut the grease and push up the sleeve that has dangled into the danger zone. I don't want to walk around with a soggy sleeve when I'm done. How in the world did grease get on the outside of the skillet? I grab the steel wool and get to work. I knew that I should have soaked this thing. As I apply the elbow grease to the skillet grease, my mind wanders away. Multiple passes with the scrubber before checking to see how much of the gunk is gone. Then back at it as I watch the bottom of the skillet slowly return as the food bits and burned bits gradually disappear.

As the dishes drain, I wipe down the counters and scour the sink. I fold up the towel and survey the results.

Now I get to cook and make a new mess.