Rabid Dishwasher

I have never seen a rabid animal up close. Mostly I've seen some movie producer's idea of what that looks like - particularly memorably in the movie Old Yeller. I read the book first, then watched the movie, and bawled through both of them.

Life is hard in early America. Poor young Travis - first he can't stand the stray mutt that wanders into his life, then he comes to rely on it through all sorts of perils. I found the she bear scene particularly spine tingling, and agonized through the part where the dog's owner comes to claim Old Yeller. Worst of all is the part where Old Yeller saves the family from a rabid wolf (note foam dangling from jaw and crazed look in eyes) and gets bit in the process. Who didn't cry when Travis had to shoot the faithful dog to save his family from extinction and horrible suffering? Man. If you haven't seen it in awhile, its worth a look.

I certainly didn't expect to encounter a rabid anything in my quiet little kitchen. Not quite the roughness of a sod hut on the prairie, our kitchen is small but comfortable. With the ivory lace and sea green curtains gracing the window overlooking the parking lot and buildings beyond, and the Amish crafted wooden table and three wooden Shaker chairs, it's an inviting and homey space. I love the warm cherry look of the wooden cabinets - my apartment sized wooden hutch with the glass door fits right in. It's a cozy room where you want to coax delightfully tantalizing odors from fresh garden produce, chopping and sauteing until your heart's content, perhaps kneading a batch of bread dough on a lazy Saturday morning.

I have worked hard to keep everything convenient yet tucked out of sight, I am definitely into a 'no-clutter' look. So while the boys were watching a movie in the living room, I wandered into the kitchen to tidy up a bit. Kiel had started the dishwasher, but there were a few pots and pans needing rinsing. I turned the faucets both on full blast (meaning I got just the right amount of temperature and pressure) and worked happily, opening the lower cabinet to toss a few paper scraps into the trash. I was so happy that maintenance had fixed the "no water coming into the dishwasher" problem. I am justifiably spoiled, and delighted not to have to stand for hours at the sink washing dishes despite the good memories of doing that chore as a child.

Suddenly I encountered gobs of white foam spewing from the dishwasher door, piling up like mounds of snow, invading the linoleum and creeping towards the carpet. "Yikes!" I yelled. Two heads turned towards me from the living room. "What?"

"The dishwasher is exploding!" My excited voice was not exactly a whisper.

"Huh?" No body moved to help.

"Really. There's bubbles all over the place." I suddenly envisioned an I Love Lucy episode where Lucy put too much soap in the washing machine. "So?" came the irritated reply. No sense getting all het up over something so minor. They turned back to the movie. With the dishwasher foaming at the mouth and the crazed look in my eyes, there was clearly something rabid in the kitchen.

I was left to fight the wild beast on my own, which meant nothing more drastic than turning the durn machine off, opening the door, clearing away the suds, mopping up the mess, and restarting. At least I didn't have to shoot it and put it out of my misery. My burning question was why it had foamed up. After all, I sure didn't want it to happen again. No one offered any speculation as to the why's. But it happened twice more before Kiel realized that he had mistaken the dishwashING soap for the dishwashER stuff. No wonder.

At least we figured it out and the rabid dishwasher has died a quiet death and is now behaving itself nicely.