How to cope with holiday cheer
Arecent commentary by Kansas City Magazine food editor Tyler Shane in The Washington Post at first seems mildly amusing. Then, with further consideration, it gains momentum:
“I can be a lazy, self-indulgent procrastinator. So in 2020, when my mental health was plummeting along with the rest of the world’s … the cure to my indolence, it turns out, wasn’t meditation or bonebroth cleanses. It was in my kitchen sink. Just do the dishes. Every day. By hand.
“Washing the dishes by hand is a chore that even the most diligent overachiever might struggle to embrace with glee. … there’s no aesthetic appeal to hovering over a sink with oversized rubber gloves. There’s no teasing superiority to scraping dried egg from a pan.
“But I tried everything. I woke at sunrise. I started therapy. I affirmed ‘I am worthy’ to the bags under my eyes while face tapping to cleanse my liver. I journaled. I fasted. I even became a yoga teacher, meditating for hours while detoxing from all the good stuff.
“When you’re in the pits of self-loathing, you don’t need to uproot your entire being. You just need discipline. Any discipline will do. … Instead of avoiding the pile in the sink, I began to confront the stacks of dirty dishes after every meal, rather than collapsing on the couch with a full belly. It still felt like the world was ending, but each day I woke up to a clean kitchen, and a clean slate.”
Maybe you’re among the many who thoroughly embrace the Christmas season—the festivities, the open houses, the tree-lightings, the suddenly cordial co-workers who previously weren’t, the shopping, the caroling, the church-going, the days off work, the increased interactions with family and friends.
Then there are those of us who aren’t impressed by it all. My family never fussed much over Christmas; the best moments were when we got an aluminum tree with a color wheel and our dachshund-beagle Pal ripped the wrapping off his new toy.
The worst was the annual Christmas party with my dad’s extended family of five brothers and two sisters, my many cousins (some of them adopted), and assorted distant relatives and neighbors.
None of these people were all that fond of one another, but they got along well enough to drink lots of Scotch (some of the uncles were not above buying cases of such that “fell off” the tailgates of fellow union members’ trucks), tell tall tales, eat stuffed cabbage, and if the evening got rowdy enough, dance on furniture not designed to hold dancers.
Sounds like fun, right? Not for kids. We were stuck at these evening gatherings, held on the first Saturday after Dec. 25 and rotated around my dad’s siblings, for four or five hours while our elders got a chance to cut loose. Shunted off into kitchens or rec rooms, we’d play board games, watch some TV (programming then isn’t what it is now), and show up for the gift-giving moments (we drew names to determine recipients; I usually ended up with someone like elderly, oversized Aunt Martha, who complained my gifts didn’t come close to meeting the suggested dollar value of around $25).
If there was a piano anywhere, my normally serene mother, having had a few highballs, would insist I play for a while. When I did, my aunts howled that they couldn’t sing along with the Johnny Vadnal’s polka blasting from a mono turntable. These evenings turned me into a lifelong cleaner-upper. The only points I ever earned with my aunts was my enthusiasm for scrubbing glasses, collecting sauce-smeared plates, emptying overflowing ash trays, sweeping kitchen floors, and washing dishes (dishwashers weren’t ubiquitous in aging foursquare houses on East 31st Street in Cleveland in those days).
The habit is hard to break. I’m reminded of those nights at those parties when we have friends over for casual suppers. As soon as the contents of a plate or platter have been consumed, I have to control the urge to whisk it away, along with empty wine glasses, canape trays, ladles, spatulas, salt and pepper shakers, hot sauce (served with everything at my house) and cutlery.
When I give in and start moving the mess into the kitchen (located directly by the dining area, so at least I can keep chatting with guests), I start rinsing and stocking the dishwasher. This probably seems rude to visitors, but I can’t help myself. My self-discipline won’t let me.
To have a clean kitchen is to have a clean slate.