Come down to the kitchen and clean me. I’m waiting for you. We can be clean again. Together.

The Love Song Of The Burnt Orange Egg Pan

Come down to the kitchen and clean me. I’m waiting for you. We can be clean again. Together.

By Tim Miller of The Faucet Blog

Hello. It’s so nice to be alone with you. Finally.

How are you? I mean really. How are you? I’ve missed you. I miss us. Just the simple moments we’ve had together. The weekend mornings. Late nights. So I got a crazy idea. What if you don’t bother to finish reading this — let’s call it what it is — this love letter. That you put it down RIGHT NOW and come down to the kitchen. You don’t need to keep reading. You don’t need to know anything else about this crazy old world. Not now. Not when I need you.

Still, I know you. I know you like to finish things you’ve started. But you don’t have to. You don’t have to go down this road. People leave things all the time. They get divorced. They quit their jobs. Now, I AM NOT endorsing that you should get divorced or quit your job. That is not what I’m trying to say.

Ugh! Writing is so frustrating! Especially when you are surrounded by soggy waffles, egg shells, and orange rinds. That garbage disposal thinks he’s such hot shit…

What am I trying to say? Yes. Put this down. Just close it and walk downstairs. Rinse out all those other dishes crowding me out. You don’t have to wash them. Just get them out of the way. Then it will be just us.

What I want you to do next is what you used to do to me all the time. Do you remember? You used to take the handle of the spatula and scrape off the old egg crust. Gently, but firmly. You’ve always known just where, and how hard, to touch me. Slowly around the edges. Then faster in the middle. Thoroughly.

With my stainless steal, non-stick surface, everything comes off so effortlessly. Not like that old silver pan that you scrape and scrape and hardly arouse. No, not like that. It’s easy. We’re easy together. You tease me how easy I am. Yet you look closely. You examine me and make sure you haven’t missed a single spot. You see the small smudges. You get the places that need a little more attention. Then, you take the sponge. You add just the right amount of soap. The rough side first, but not too hard. You hold me and scrub me. It feels so good.

First the rough side. Then the soft side. Always in that order. You squeeze the soapy water all over me. You give and give and give because you are a generous person. I’ve always loved that about you. Your generosity. Then you rinse me. You adjust the faucet to higher pressure. You change the water from warm to hot. You turn me over and over, over and over, over and over, in the hot, hard water. Then you put it on low pressure. You turn the temperature to cool. You wash me one last time. For good measure. Your strong competent hands in the cool water.

Finally you give me one last little jiggle, shaking off the loose drops, and together we are clean.

Do you remember how it used to be? You used to hand dry me. None of this air drying with the water bottles or the pots or the Tupperware or those ridiculous sippy cups. And always a clean, fresh towel. Never soiled or wrinkled or smelling faintly of sour milk. Those stretchy, soft blue ones that are somehow more absorbent. You would dry me and put me away. Tenderly. With care.

Come down to the kitchen and clean me. I’m waiting for you. We can be clean again. Together.


About the Author

Tim Miller is a writer and humorist living in San Marcos, CA. He got his start as a humor columnist for The North County Times near San Diego in 2011. When the newspaper ceased publication, he turned to freelance writing, while also developing theories about the widespread extinction of local newspaper humor columnists. Once, while eating a burrito, he had an epiphany. Something about a meteor. While the theory remains unpublished, his writing has appeared in places like Across The Margin, Defenestration, The Piker Press, The Writing Disorder, and The Scarlet Leaf Review. To the dismay of plumbers everywhere, he blogs his leaky thoughts at Find him on Twitter @faucetwriter. As a school teacher and father of three young daughters, he’s f*cking hysterical when he’s fully rested, which is never.