By SALLIE SATTERTHWAITE
Lifestyle Columnist

“What are you doing?”

Delivered by a tired husband in a certain tone of voice (accent on “what” and not on “doing”) that is not merely a casual, solicitous question about a wife's afternoon.

I heard it most recently when Dave walked in out of a July steamer, wanting nothing but a cold beer and the promise of supper, and found the table set with the ruby-red tea glasses and my mother's sterling silver.

The kitchen counters were wall-to-wall with canisters and freshly washed dishes and saucepans drying inverted on towels.

In “What are you doing?” I heard, “We're not having company for dinner with this mess, are we?”

And, “Why are you washing every dish we own?”

And, “Does this have anything to do with the bug-bombs we set off last night?”

The answers: “No.”

“They needed it.”

And, “Sort of.”

I hope — I pray! — that the growing influx of those huge bugs I prefer to call palmetto bugs (“roaches” sounds so... dirty) is not a reflection on my housekeeping skills or lack of. I hope — I pray! — they and our resident spiders are simply a natural consequence of living on this woodsy lot.

Nonetheless, once or twice each summer they overcome my resolve to live compatibly with Mother Nature, and drive me to beg Dave to set off a couple of bug bombs.

The evening before “What are you doing?” we were going to be out for a potluck-and-meeting, so we turned off the air conditioner, locked the cat out of the house, and released a mist designed to seek and destroy our unwanted guests.

I had carried out to the screened porch items like the cutting board and kitchen utensils I keep in crocks on the counter. My jars of beans and pastas are well sealed.

But while I could have protected the dishes and pots and pans from the spray by keeping cabinet doors closed, that would have thwarted the spray's effectiveness. Besides, most of my cabinets are open — doorless — to display the things I love best, vulnerable to dust, spiders, or a potentially lethal fog, despite my spreading newspapers over them.

On our return, Dave ventilated the house, vacuumed up corpses and damp-mopped the tile floors, while I removed papers, laved every kitchen surface with soapy water, and retrieved the items I'd evacuated earlier.

It wasn't enough. My mind would not be easy until the plates and glasses were washed too.

I argued with myself that they needed it anyhow. For too long I had felt my hand breaking through cobwebs as I withdrew seldom-used crockery from the back of a shelf. I can't even guess how long it's been since those shelves had been cleaned.

Over 43 years of keeping house, I've gone through dishes like anyone, but have collected enough everyday pieces to set about 20 places. And there are at least 30 more mugs and assorted dessert dishes I've collected simply because I like them.

(This doesn't count Mom's china. It does live behind closed doors, to protect it. But I'll probably wash it too before I use it again, even though it was covered.)

My pottery addiction is no secret: I have pitchers and bowls and plates and sugars and creamers in a dozen shades of blue and brown. Just ask Wayne Rives, the local potter whose stuff I buy simply because I love it.

Fortunately, I have just enough self-control to keep it wrapped up in the attic for wedding gifts.

The shelves? I counted: We have 11 standard-sized kitchen shelves with dishes and glasses on them, plus five more on a baker's rack, bearing everyday dinner dishes handy to the table.

All open. Which is just the point. None are hidden even behind clear doors. The pleasure I get, the stories I read on their bright glaze, invoke memories of distant travels and local arts festivals alike.

So. I washed. And I wiped. And I put back just as they were before. And in the process I noted some I simply hadn't used in awhile.

Thus Dave found the table set in festive mode that Friday afternoon, even though the menu was veggie-hot dogs, leftover tuna-bean salad, and cold rice heated in bouillon.

Why Mom's sterling? It was safe from bug spray in its box under the couch, but it too had not been used in ages. The time was right to get it out and admire its soft patina.

In fact, it was in that revery that Dave came in and caught me with my project unfinished. I'll tell you about the sterling another day. For now, enough to note that the hot dogs, soup and salad were delicious, the tastier for being served on squeaky-clean plates and bowls.

Or maybe it was because I was so tired and feeling so proud of the massive job I'd completed that at first I missed the import of what Dave was saying:

“You know, it says on the bug can that in case any eggs hatch out, we should do this again in about two weeks.”

Back to the Top of the PageBack to the Weekend Home Page