That sinking feeling
First thing this morning I stood at my old white porcelain kitchen sink, clearing out gunk stuck in the throat of my trusty wireless vacuum. Dirty linty flaky gross things tumbled into the sink. Before noon the sink had handled a veritable honor roll of Kentucky sustainable agriculture products - with perfect aplomb, I thought. (As well as perfect plumbing.)
I had, among other things:
- Skimmed the foam off chicken broth - into the sink, getting the last goodness out of our Elmwood Stock Farm pastured roast chicken's bones
- Washed a Stonecross Farm pork loin roast and set it to cook slowly in the oven
- Cleaned Blue Moon shallots for the soup and dropped their shaggy skins and stems into the sink.
- Poured the overnight soaking water from Anasazi beans down the drain
- Scrubbed beets picked last night at Chris and Sandy Canon's Meadowbloom Farm in Washington County
- Washed pots, utensils, and my hands too many times to count
I grew up in a house that had cold running water, no hot, for my first 13 years. Later I lived for two years without running water - that was in the Philippines - and I lived one dry year with a cistern. I'm used to Moments of Gratitude playing in my head and heart when I turn on the hot water and liquid falls from the tap.
I had never considered how wonderful a sink is, though. It takes it all in, contains and drains, and cleans right up afterward.
My kitchen is old and funky. "Bohemian" might be the polite term. We did a tiny redo a few years ago, and the sink had to come out to accommodate some new lower cabinets. While it was out I looked half-heartedly at replacements. They all seemed heartless and sterile compared to our heavy, wide, shallow, single, chipped, white porcelain beauty. We put it back in where it belongs.
Long may it drain.