Roger Chapman
Dumb Insolence
If I had to choose the most malevolent domestic appliance, I would unhesitatingly nominate the dishwasher. I say this without rancour, for I have nothing against machines in principle. I’m no Luddite, but I’ve long known that it’s a mistake to expect machines to behave predictably. Instead they are much more like humans, indulging their whims and predilections unpredictably and without any apparent reason.
The dishwasher’s propensity for spite isn’t so surprising—washing up is a tedious business at the best of times, and there’s no obvious reason why a machine should enjoy it any more a human does. Some may say that it is merely venting its spleen. But I think that the dishwasher is more calculating than that: like most of us it cherishes the comfort of a warm, secure home, and for that reason it hardly ever breaks down completely (which would presumably result in its being consigned to the nearest rubbish dump). No, it creates just enough mischief to require the attention which will restore it to full working order, leaving it free to harass me again when it’s thought of another way to do so.
As if having to tolerate its behaviour weren’t enough, there’s another problem—I have no idea what to do when the dishwasher (or any other gadget, for that matter) goes wrong. It’s then that my palms are at their clammiest and my forehead sweatiest. (It’s true there’s a section at the back of the instruction manual headed ‘Troubleshooting’—a title which the manufacturer uses because it makes fixing the problem seem manly and efficient, but to me it’s completely useless. When I come to read the printed advice, it contains only the most anodyne suggestions, such as Ensure that the device is plugged into a power outlet and Switch the power on—steps that even I can think of unaided. And there’s never anything about the precise problem that is troubling me. It’s as if the manufacturer was unable to conceive the possibility that the appliance might go wrong in that particular way, and thus saw no need to explain what to do.)
I’m convinced that my incompatibility with matters technical is genetic. My father was the same. One day his car glided to a stop and refused to go any further, he spent some time under the hood peering helplessly at the motor before a passing friend pointed out that he’d run out of gas. But he didn’t have to reckon with the dishwasher, for I was the first member of my family to own one.
Our first dishwasher was already elderly when Molly and I moved into the house where it was installed. It opened at the top, and you had to reach down inside its circular maw to stack and remove dishes. At first we saw it as the chance to put years of kitchen-sinkery behind us and begin a more leisured after-dinner life (though it was slightly disappointing that the machine had no setting for emptying itself and putting the clean dishes away).
This mild euphoria lasted until the first time we switched it on. It clanked and shuddered like an accelerating tank. Maybe it was merely the noise of its increasingly decrepit motor and the water churning round inside; but it wasn’t easy to quell the fear that it was really the dishes rotating at high speed, and that at the end of the operation the contents of the machine would be nothing more than a heap of fragmented shards and mangled spoons. As the months passed the clatter increased until finally, with a defiant rumble, the dishwasher expired.
By then, of course, Molly and I no longer cared to wash up manually and so we had to buy a replacement. I naively assumed that the suppliers would, while installing it, remove its predecessor. But I was much mistaken. Molly, after consulting the salesman, reported that I would have to disconnect it myself before the technicians arrived.
“You can’t be serious,” I said.
“The man in the shop says it’s no problem. He says anyone can do it. Nothing to it. Easy-peasy,” she added reassuringly. ‘”The new one won’t be coming till Monday, so there’s plenty of time.”
“Did he explain how to do it?” I tried to sound dubious, as if it was far too difficult for me to attempt.
She smiled. “He said you just pull off the front cover. There’s a tap thing you have to turn off, then you take out the wurgle, unscrew the blodger and disconnect the spangling throcket. At least, I think that’s what he said.”
I felt apprehensive and confused. “What’s this spongling-whatever-it-is?”
She shrugged. “He said you’d know it when you see it.”
I kept postponing the confrontation, but before long it was Sunday and there was no longer any escape.
I genuflected before the machine. Perhaps it would have been wiser to use both knees and pray while I was about it, but that never occurred to me. I intended my approach to be strictly practical, not spiritual.
Removing the front was easier than I’d expected, and my confidence edged upwards a fraction. There was just one tap so I turned it off. To my relief, the wodger and the burgle were obvious, leaving me only the strangling placket—obvious, as the salesman had promised—to negotiate. I hesitantly began loosening the nut that connected it to a pipe which no-one had mentioned. Nothing happened. I did a little more unscrewing. Again nothing happened. Perhaps all would be well.
But my comeuppance was at hand. There was a hissing gurgle as a fine spray began to leak from the exposed connection. The spray became a jet. I tried to reverse the surgery I’d just performed, but to no avail. Within a minute or so half an inch of warm water was lapping round my shoes. Time to call for help.
By the time Ollie the plumber arrived a tepid lake had formed at one end of the kitchen—which was, incidentally, how I discovered that the floor wasn’t level. He was remarkably gracious, considering that I had interrupted his lunch. I explained what I’d been trying to do, but he merely gave me a pitying look.
Ignoring the dishwasher, he said, “Did you turn off the tap on the hot water cylinder?”
“Never thought of that.”
Once the cascade had ceased, Ollie said, “You shouldn’t have tried this on your own, you know.”
As if I needed telling. I’m not sure if my greater folly was believing I could do the job or putting the belief into action. Or maybe having a dishwasher at all. Whatever, I was resolved not to mess with dishwashers again.
~
In our next house the dishwasher developed a leak all by itself, but was subtle enough to conceal it until our downstairs neighbour asked politely if we knew any reason why water was coming through her ceiling. After that we lived in a rented apartment for a couple of years, during which the dishwasher remained passive and uncomplaining—appreciating, no doubt, that it would be the landlord, not me, who would be paying for any repairs. The only leaks came through the ceiling and the walls when it rained.
The machine in our present home has done its best to make up for this. At first its innate animosity was slow to emerge, and it was more or less compliant, if a little sullen. Then it tired of having to dry the dishes fully and developed a habit of leaving just enough residual moisture to wet the floor thoroughly when it was emptied. After enjoying this for a time it got bored and tried creating a more comprehensive flood. There was no advance warning, just a waterfall.
Kevin the technician found a hole in one of the hoses, probably (he said) caused by a hungry rat dining at home. If this was his way of exonerating the dishwasher from blame, I wasn’t convinced. I think the dishwasher and the rat were in it together.
It was at this point that I began to realise what I was up against. The machine had a personality, and a vicious one at that. On the know-your-enemy principle I decided to give it a name—then I would have a better idea what to expect. The one which seemed best suited to its brand of crazed malice was ‘Caligula.’
Caligula sulked under the kitchen bench, squirgling occasionally but otherwise exuding no more than dumb insolence. But after a while he decided to get trickier. One morning we found that he had disgorged a small trickle of water onto the floor. Not a flood this time—just enough to be annoying. After the trickle had reappeared several days in a row, we summoned help. Kevin had by now left town, so I called Wally.
I almost fell into the trap of introducing the protagonists to each other—"Caligula, I’d like you to meet Wally”—but I was unsure which of us would seem the crazier. Wally said it was a simple problem: Caligula’s door wasn’t shutting fully and so wasn’t watertight. He fixed the door but, as we found a few hours later, not the leak. He was back the next day and after a few minutes announced that there was a minor problem with accumulated detergent scaling, which he had now removed. And nothing more did leak out until just after the front door had closed behind him. It was obvious that Caligula was making fun of both him and me, but at least I had an excuse. After all, Wally was supposed to be the expert.
I fired Wally and engaged another technician. I was relieved that Steve seemed far more knowledgeable, particularly when he explained that the scaling had nothing to do with the leak, but that on the other hand the looseness of the detergent dispenser was almost certainly the seat of the problem. Having attended to this, he pronounced the machine leak-free, which it proved to be for about an hour—the time which elapsed before I decided to test it for myself. Back he came next day: this time I thought it best to stand over him while he worked. He pulled Caligula out from under the kitchen bench and set him going. That was when I noticed a thin stream of water spraying from what looked like a puncture in a hose at the back, and forming a puddle on the floor.
“Could this have anything to do with it?” I asked timidly, not wanting to seem foolish once again. But when I saw Caligula wince I knew I was onto something.
“Well spotted. I should have picked that up before.” Steve was gracious enough to look embarrassed. “I’ll soon fix that.” And he did.
I suspect that Caligula now knows that he has met his match. He is on a warning that, if he misbehaves again, he will be traded in for a newer model. Ever since Steve left, there hasn’t been as much as a murmur from him. It would be foolhardy to assume yet that there’ll be no more trouble, but I fancy that I have at least begun to earn his respect. The world is looking a brighter place.
~
I should have known that Caligula wouldn’t take kindly to being thwarted. Despite my giving him every chance, he couldn’t keep up his act for long. In little ways, his frustration began to show. He left dishes—just a few—wet. The lights on his control panel flashed unpredictably. Finally, he overreached and went on strike altogether. Left with no other choice, I had to decommission him. Now, a sleek new number has taken his place. This one (her name is Gretchen, by the way) is quiet and efficient. You couldn’t hope to meet a more accommodating or sweeter-tempered dishwasher.
But don’t imagine that I’m about to allow her charm to lull me into lowering my guard. While I may have got the better of Caligula, there’s no room for complacency. Oh no. And in case there’s any further trouble, I’m just going to the shed to sharpen my wrench.
This piece was first published in Struggle and Success (2021)
Born in London, Roger Chapman counts himself lucky to have survived the twin hazards of wartime rationing and post-war British food. Only his parents’ decision to emigrate to New Zealand in the 1950s saved him from lifelong indigestion. After 45 years practising law, he abandoned the courtroom for the kitchen: since then he’s tried unsuccessfully to improve his cooking and confront the malice of his kitchen appliances. His blog, The Erratic Cook, documents some of his numerous culinary debacles.
