Brains and sponges have something in common: they require squeezing on a regular basis to remain useful.
Sponges are simple, utilitarian tools. Our household has lots of them, big ones, small ones, all colors. They’re mainly used for cleaning dirty dishes, a simple task requiring little brain function, which explains why men are sometimes assigned the task. The effort on the cerebral cortex ranks right up there with watching New Jersey Housewives.
In our home she cooks, I clean. It’s an equitable division of labor. She once suggested I move further up the food chain, like reading a recipe and following directions. It was an ill-conceived idea. Marital bliss cannot co-exist with such experiments. Meat cleavers are simply overkill for mincing garlic cloves.
Cleaning the kitchen will relieve any brain of the day’s accumulation of clutter…personal insults, injustices and outright rejections that flesh is constantly heir to. My utensil of choice is the long-handled scrub brush, not a soggy sponge.
A bloated blue sponge that floats around arrogantly in dull dishwater is repugnant. Splashing around in a sudsy sink will age hands in just minutes, not to mention the destruction of good nails. Moreover, no man would be caught dead wearing an apron and elbow-length yellow rubber gloves.
Like everything, there’s a protocol to proper dishwashing. Women write the instruction manual. What’s it to a man if an occasional dried rice kernel or two remains stuck to the wall of a supposedly washed pot. No big deal. And who ever looks at the bottoms of pots and pans? (Women, that’s who!)
For men, many of life’s lessons on proper cleanliness originate down on some creek bank. The brains of young boys are like sponges, absorbent and adaptive. The idea of acceptable cleanliness of cooking utensils is formed on camp-outs and fishing expeditions. Cleanliness is a relative term.
Grease and germs that dare to dangle in a pan after frying fish or bacon are exterminated by the simplest method: fire. After that, a wad of swamp mud rubs off the remainder of germ holdovers. Then a quick dip in whatever water is handy. No sponges necessary.
Somehow along the way men progress beyond fire and mud and live to tell about it. They’re now slaves to detergents. It’s more refined, says the Kitchen Queen, who inspects everything under the glare of a harsh halogen spotlight. Re-washing is frequent.
After washing, my tendency is to pick up the sodden sponge with tongs and fling it into the dishwasher. But Madame Decorum demands it be rinsed and squeezed, until all soaked-up grime and remnants of its day be removed. It’s a mindless process.
After last night’s thorough bout of rinsing and squeezing, my sponge is now an empty receptacle. It’s ready to absorb some more dirt from the next duty. I am about to put it away when I hear The Voice speak.
“Hey, let me give your brain a big squeeze. Then learn the parable of the sponge.”
Do you ever hear voices? I listen. Suddenly I feel a little squeeze.
I ask The Voice if it washes dishes, too.
It answers. “Sort of. I scrub and squeeze out the daily layered-up brain debris you accumulate. Your brain seems to be a glutton for goop.” I want to argue, but my defense is weak.
I ask it to please refrain from any future squeezing. I relish the rubbish of my past. It defines me. I carry it everywhere. It’s like a security blanket. To squeeze it out, why, I’d be an empty vessel. I imagine demons moving into the vacancy and setting up house in my cerebral gray matter.
Brains might seem like sieves, but they record everything. The Voice dredges up a reminder of my long-forgotten lust for apple sauce as a kid. I’d overpower my younger brother and beat him out of his. My dad finally got fed up and forced-fed me an entire can. I hate apples to this day.
Everything in life seems to work towards a meaningful conclusion. I consider hearing this parable of the sponge a turning point in life. Now when I hold a sponge in my hand I see myself. A good squeeze every day is a remedial event.
From now on dishwashing will ever be sacramental. Keep squeezing.
Bud Hearn
July 28, 2017