The simple truth is my go to state is slob. It’s all in the bits crammed into bits in the infinite gift that is my ADHD brain. That and my patron saint is Bill, protector of them that think if it is worth doing, it is worth overdoing. This is not mine. I read it in a daily calendar spiral daybook based on a cartoon or comic strip. Maybe it was Cathy. I confess to being the imperfect disciple of Marie Kondo (whose name I thought looked Greek so to the search). Read the book. Acquired the book. Listened to audio. Twice. There are empty drawers, bare shelves, unburdened hangers, a place for everything and everything in its place. In theory, my apartment mandates that my stuff social-distance, but too often sage directives and quiet cajoling fall on inanimate objects somehow possessed of movement. see Angels in Doctor Who. I create piles. I generate mounds. I use every pot and pan every utensil and all the plates bowls and glasses I own for each meal. There are days when I despair I may be pre-hoarder the way my doctor warns me that I am pre-diabetic. I can’t help it. It is beyond me.
No. More.
Turns out I didn’t have the particular how-to. Used to be, I would cook. The prep stuff would collect in the sink. Can’t wash and clear the prep stuff and stir the
Béchamel sauce. I would eat. Can’t put the hot pot in the sink with the cold water. It’ll warp. I have to … do anything to keep from doing the dishes. Repeat. Anthony suggested I take away some of all the stuff so there is no clean one on the shelf and I have to wash the glass or mug I just used so I can use it again. I thought about that. Walked through the steps in my head. How come I didn’t already do that? Seemed simple enough. Of course. I was never a coffee drinker at work and so never had a mug that I had to wash before the next coffee. Perhaps. Joe and I were restaurant dine in and take out people. There was a period of years when we did not have a properly working stove and so real cooking was next to impossible with one burner out of four working, and baking was a fire-hazard because the thermostat did not work and so the oven got hotter and hotter. I tried to bake shortbread by setting a timer and turning the oven off and on in five-minute intervals and opening and closing the door to vent and regulate the heat.
More likely my ADHD brain treats cooking and eating without taking into account the full picture. In the old time of restaurants, the decision to eat out was conscious and deliberate. We worked opposite schedules and our waking time together was precious and at a premium. Prep time with each of us apart and alone was replaced with focused time together driving or walking but always talking and laughing and together. Meals were always a celebration. And we were further rewarded with the return time getting home. And no dishes. No matter. That was a long time ago and a different life.
Caring for my ADHD brain as I do, and more or less understanding some of the quirks and potential pitfalls, I began the kitchen purge I cut mostly everything down to two each. I put away the big gorgeous and very heavy double boiler for eight. Shelf space. Two racks of dishes became one. Shelf space. A shelf of bowls and a shelf of glasses became a shelf of bowls and glasses, Not a coffee drinker so no cups or mugs. More shelf space.
I stopped to check the word count. 636. I knew it. Ran over 500 words. Too long.
If the sink is lava dishes can’t touch porcelain. Hand picks up dish from table. No lava there. Hands wash dish no touching sink since sink is lava. Hand places clean dish on rack to dry. No lava here either. Ta da!