Of Brains and Sponges

Brains and sponges have something in common: they require squeezing on a regular basis to eliminate the grease and grime of life. The preacher gave mine a big squeeze… what oozed out was ugly!

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Sponges are simple, utilitarian tools. Our household has lots of them. Blue ones mostly. They’re used for cleaning dirty dishes, a simple task requiring little brain function, which explains why I’m assigned the nightly task. Such cognitive functions rank on the level of crunching cockroaches.

She cooks, I clean, a workable division of labor. She once suggested I consider a more creative role, like reading a recipe and following directions. It was an ill-conceived experiment. Marital bliss is higher priority. Besides, meat cleavers are simply overkill for mincing garlic cloves.

Cleaning the kitchen relieves my mind of the day’s accumulation of crap…personal insults, injustices and outright rejections that flesh is heir to. My weapon of choice is the long-handled scrub brush, not a soggy sponge.

A bloated blue sponge floating around arrogantly in a sudsy sink of dull dishwater is repugnant. In minutes my hands age years by dipping them in foul, chemically-laced water. Manly attire does not consist in wearing aprons and elbow-length yellow rubber gloves.

There’s a protocol to proper dishwashing. Women write the instruction manual. What’s it to a man if an occasional dried rice kernel or two remains stuck to the wall of a supposedly washed pot. No big deal.

Creek banks and back seats are where young boys learn many of life’s lessons. The brains of young boys are like sponges, absorbent and adaptive. The idea of acceptable cleanliness of cooking utensils was formed on camp-outs and fishing expeditions.

Grease germs that dared to dangle in a pan after frying fish or bacon were exterminated by multiple tortures. Baptism by fire was the preferred method. After that, a wad of swamp mud rubbed off the remainder, followed by a refreshing dip in whatever water was handy.

Alas, we have progressed beyond mud and fire. Now we support the detergent industry. It’s more refined says the Kitchen Queen, who inspects everything under the glare of a harsh halogen spotlight. Re-washing is frequent.

After washing, my tendency is to pick up the sodden sponge with tongs and fling it into the dishwasher to decompose along with the other germs. But Madame Decorum demands it be rinsed and squeezed, rinsed and squeezed, until all soaked-up grime and remnants of its day be removed. It’s a timely and laborious process.

After hours of rinsing and squeezing, the poor sponge is again healthy. Being now an empty receptacle, it’s ready to receive some more dirt from tomorrow’s duty. That’s when my brain spoke.

“Hey, dummy, give me a big squeeze. Learn the parable of the sponge.”

Does your brain speak to you? It’s the first time I’ve heard mine speak. It’s important to answer your brain. I did.

“I didn’t know you needed a squeeze. Have you been washing dirty dishes lately?” I laughed.

“What’s so funny, wise guy? I wash your dirty dishes every second of the day, you ingrate. I’m bursting with your debris. Squeeze some of it out, you glutton.” Brain-talk is serious business.

“No way. I relish the rubbish of my past. It defines me. I carry it everywhere. Thanks for taking good care of it. It’s my security blanket. To squeeze it out would make me an empty vessel. More demons might move in and occupy your empty cerebral gray matter.”

“Listen up, you idiot. When you were a kid you craved apple sauce. Remember how you sponged off your brother’s plate and ate his? And your daddy force fed you the whole jar? How did you feel?” Brains might seem like sieves, but they forget nothing.

“I remember. I gagged. It ran out of my nose and ears. I hate apples to this day. I get it. You’re a sponge. No more room to absorb anything. Right?”

“You’re a slow learner, Einstein. Call preacher Steve. Tell him you’ve decided to repent and need a big washing in the baptismal font. That’ll do the job. I’ll be good as new, and so will you.”

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As for brains and sponges, dishwashing will never be the same….

Bud Hearn
September 19, 2014