I like lobster, but nobody else in the family does, so they won’t eat lobster with me.
I could have tried to wrangle up a pack of girlfriends to eat lobster with me, but I wasn’t organized enough.
A couple of years ago, when my husband was out of town on a business trip, the girlfriends had arranged to meet at Lobsterfest. I packed up the kids and headed up to church. We were halfway across the parking lot when one of my children suddenly fell ill. I packed the kids back into the car, then went in and asked for my lobster to-go.
There are priorities.
Nevertheless, eating lobster by myself out of a Styrofoam take-out container wasn’t exactly how I’d pictured the evening going.
Lobster is no longer the real draw for me at Lobsterfest. These days, I go for the dishcloths.
Along with an amazing array of baked goods, our church women’s group sells handmade crocheted dishcloths.
I can no longer live without handmade crocheted dishcloths.
Growing up, my mother used sponges to wash the dishes. When I set up housekeeping on my own, I preferred a long-handled dish brush.
It was my mother-in-law who introduced me to dishcloths. When my husband and I were still newlyweds, his parents came for a visit, and his mother helped around the house. But she declared that she could not use a dish brush to wash dishes. She sent her husband out to buy a pack of dishcloths.
After I got over the mortifying realization that I was not using the proper dishwashing equipment, I realized my mother-in-law was right. Dishcloths are the bomb.
I was happy using store-bought until a dear, dear friend gave me a dishcloth she had made while teaching herself to crochet.
Everytime I used it, I thought of my friend, and it made the dishwashing a little easier.
Handmade dishcloths look like they would last forever. I wouldn’t know, because the other members of my household manage to put five or six of them down the garbage disposal every year.
Not that anybody else in the family ever runs the garbage disposal. No, that’s my job. I come along, notice that the sink is starting to back up, and flip the switch on the disposal.
Thus it is, like Artemis shooting Orion, that I am tricked into destroying something I love.
By the time Lobsterfest rolled around this year, I was reduced to washing dishes with half-scraps and quarter-scraps of dishrag.
And so, while my son was at one end of the bake-sale table loading up on homemade brownies and sprinkle cookies, I was at the other end, filling my arms with every single multicolored handmade crocheted dishcloth I could find.
I left the white dishcloths for someone else to buy. My family is good at losing dishcloths down the garbage disposal — but they’re even better at using them to clean the floor, or scrub the stove, or wash the car, or mop up spilled grape juice.