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By Liz Alterman

Some people spot a cardinal or a ladybug and imagine it's their deceased loved one paying a quick visit. Others hear a song and feel the presence of the friend or family member they’ve lost. I find myself connecting with my dad, who passed away in May 2021, each time I use my dishwasher. 

It’s not what you’d imagine — that he and I bonded while tackling the loathsome chore of emptying this appliance together. We never chatted about our days while stacking coffee mugs and separating silverware. We didn’t have a long-standing, sitcom-style feud over the proper way to load it either.

In fact, my father never even saw the dishwasher that brings him back to me multiple times a day, his voice so clear it’s as if he’s standing in my kitchen with me. He’d been gone six months when my old dishwasher conked out a week before Thanksgiving, our first one without him. He wasn't the official turkey carver nor did he offer a heartfelt toast or say a memorable grace at this holiday. Typically, he played the role of the curmudgeon in the corner, demanding to know, “Where’s that draft coming from?” and reminding me that last year's mashed potatoes were lumpy — “So don’t be afraid to whip ‘em a little longer, Lizzie!” 

Still, it would be brutal not to have him seated at our table.

I was hosting this occasion, preparing a turkey and all the trimmings for 13 of us, and the thought of doing it without my dad and without a dishwasher filled me with a double dose of despair. 

When I reached out to repair shops to see if our 16-year-old model was salvageable, I learned that the charge to diagnose the issue was at least a third the cost of a new one. Thus began the search for my next dishwasher. 

I wasn’t picky. I just needed it installed before I had dinner and pie plates stacked to my ceiling. But this was November 2021 and the pandemic continued to wreak havoc on the supply chain. I visited appliance and big box stores only to be told it would be weeks — maybe months — before any dishwashers would be back in stock. Needless to say, I panicked. We’re a family of five. We run the dishwasher at least every other day. (On holidays, I frequently spend more time with this appliance than with some of my guests.) 

I decided to try a local shop — one my husband and I had joked must be an Ozark-like front for money laundering because we’d never seen anyone go in or out after driving past it for two decades. When I called, they told me they could have a dishwasher delivered and installed the day before Thanksgiving. It felt like a miracle. I looked up the model online and skimmed the mostly positive reviews. I gave my credit card information over the phone and, days later, the dishwasher arrived. It was silver, sleek and purred softly during the test cycle. 

My spirits lifted. Even though my dad wouldn’t be with us, at least I wouldn’t spend Thanksgiving night hand-washing a tower of dirty dishes and a tangle of silverware. 

Excited to load my new appliance, I rolled out the lower rack, its tiny wheels screeching. Much to my dismay, the rows were so narrow my slender plates barely fit — the slots were more suited to dishes the width of dental floss or perhaps paper plates, which, of course, would negate any need for this machine. Then I noticed a peculiar third row. It was so close to the second rack, there was no way to squeeze a stemmed wine glass in there. And that’s when I heard it — my father’s voice. “This thing was designed by an idiot!” he hollered. 

A bit like George Costanza’s dad, my father was prone to hot-headedness and never one to mince words. A hard worker, he demanded that everyone try their best as well. If he’d still been alive, he probably would’ve taken apart my old dishwasher and tried to fix the problem while watching YouTube videos and muttering his catchphrase, “horse’s ass,” as he and his tools sloshed around in a pool of dirty water and soggy Cheerios. 

Over the years, each time an appliance gave out, he begged me to fix rather than replace it. 

“They don’t make ‘em like they used to, Lizzie,” he’d say. “I’d hang on to it if I were you.”

I thought about that as I soon discovered the openings for cereal bowls were too wide on the bottom rack but too narrow on the top. 

As days passed, I began to hate my new dishwasher. Then I heard my dad’s rebuke, “Ah, Lizzie, what were you thinking? You bought it sight-unseen. Would you buy a car without test-driving it? Would you buy a house without walking through its rooms? Didn’t I teach you anything?”

“You’re right,” I said to the empty kitchen. “It’s like this was put together by someone who’s never used a dishwasher. Maybe a seventh-grader with a sick sense of humor won a science fair sponsored by Bosch?”

I could see my dad shaking his head. “What did I tell ya? Should’ve fixed the old one!” I could hear his laughter, and in my mind, it didn’t lead to a coughing fit the way it had in the last years of his life.

It’s been more than 18 months that I’ve been wrestling my cutlery in and out of the uneven openings in the dishwasher’s tiny silverware basket. I’ve given up trying to fit certain dishes in this appliance. I’ve purchased stemless wine glasses.

And yet I love it because when a bowl invariably falls over or the lower rack comes off the track and lands with a thud on my kitchen floor, I whisper, “horse’s ass!” and hear my feisty father shout, “This was designed by a moron!”

As long as I have this dishwasher with all its faults, I’ve got my dad right there with me. 

— Liz Alterman 

Liz Alterman is a journalist and humorist whose work has been published by The New York Times, The Washington Post, McSweeney's, Parents and more. Her humorous memoir, Sad Sacked, was released by Audible Originals. She also is the author of the young adult novel, He'll Be Waiting, and the domestic suspense novel, A Perfect Neighborhood. (Photo credit: Gracemarie Photograph