Nana always treated cleaning like a quiet conversation, not a battle. She’d place a heatproof dish of water in the oven, drop in a single dishwashing pod, and set it to low heat. As the pod dissolved, steam and enzymes drifted into every corner, softening grease and baked-on spills while she sat peacefully at the table, hands wrapped around a warm cup of tea.
Only when the oven cooled would she open the door, as if unveiling a secret. A few unhurried wipes, and the grime slipped away without protest. No stinging sprays, no harsh scents hanging in the air, just the faint, clean smell of a job done kindly. Her ritual wasn’t about a spotless appliance; it was a quiet rebellion against the idea that effort must hurt to count, proof that tenderness can still transform what looks beyond saving.
