The griddle of our discontent

The above griddle resides in my house. When I took this picture, it had been on the counter for three days. It made its latest first appearance last Saturday when my husband used it to make pancakes. Had I indulged in pancakes made on this griddle, I would have happily and gratefully cleaned the griddle and returned it to its home under the kitchen island. But I don’t eat pancakes. Ever. So why should I clean up after a meal I didn’t cook or eat? So I didn’t clean it. And neither did anyone else. It was moved from the top of the island to a spot next to the sink then back to the island again, but never cleaned.

The griddle was used again on Monday, when my son decided he wanted to make a grilled cheese sandwich. He wiped it down before he used it, but that doesn’t really count as cleaning, does it? Furthermore, after he made his grilled cheese sandwich, he left the griddle messier than when he found it, and he left it right where it’s mostly been since Saturday–in the center of the island in the middle of the kitchen.

Did I clean it and put it away?

No. Not right away.

Did I ask my son to clean it and put it back where it belonged?

No. I shouldn’t have to.

Nor should I had to have asked my husband to clean it on Saturday morning after making pancakes that I didn’t eat.

Because I’m not a maid.

And they all should know better than to leave that griddle out assuming I’m going to clean it.

So instead of cleaning the thing and putting it away,

it served as a reminder every time I passed the kitchen how often what I do is taken for granted.

But it only served as a reminder for me,

because no one else cares that there’s a big, dirty griddle sitting on the counter.

Just as no one else but me knows how much it bothers me.

It’s clean and put away where it belongs now.

I finally broke down and did it myself.

I suppose I could tell my family how having to clean a griddle I never use makes me feel taken for granted.

But I know hearing those words spoken aloud would sound incredibly petty and ridiculous.

Almost as petty and ridiculous as being mad about a griddle for three days.

What’s your giant fork and spoon?