Beaucoup de laver.

Lotsa washing, this evening.

It started with dinner dishes, of course. Everyone does the dishes and no one should ever write a blog post about it unless the dishes are bordered with flowers painted from ground lapis luzuli applied with brushes made from the eyelashes of penitent monks. Mine aren’t. They’re from Cost Plus.

But I had to get the sink cleaned out and everything put away so I could do washing project No. 2, baby lamb. Of course, being a vegetarian house, this was the outside of the lamb, not the inside.

My friend sent me a box.

Not my cardboard box

It was kind of like this one, only white. About 10″-12″ on a side. Not a huge box. Inside was a lovely white lambs’-wool fleece (THANK YOU!) and I thought, look, this box is smaller than the capacity of my kitchen sink. I will wash my fleece tonight. But the fleece had a few ideas of its own.

It grew. I took it out of the box and it was like an origami crane, but made of wool, going in reverse, on fire. Except for the fire part. It unfolded itself, separated into sections. Part of it slithered under the kitchen table, part headed for the oven where a pan of corn muffins, soon to be a culinary disaster due to too much rice flour, still baked and sent off their deceptively yummy smell.

The cat discovered the fleece. And surprisingly, he did not pee on it. Instead, he rolled, kneaded, petted. He found free sets of wool locks and embraced them. It was disgusting. There isn’t this much love on television.

I gave it a preliminary skirt, divided the fleece into three sections and decided to do one at a time. The one section took several baths. Now, my understanding is that with a well-skirted, newly shorn fleece, it should be wash-wash-rinse-hang to dry. My fleece? Not so much. Wash-wash-rinse-rinse-rinse-rinse-rinse-rinse-hang to dry because I’m sick of standing over this sink and by the way, by this time the muffins (yes, well away from the sink and from any Cat Lanolin Love going on) have decided to play with the laws of physics and become corn-flavored dust. Tasty dust. Dust nonetheless.

After all that lanolin- and mud- and who-knows-what-all laying on my kitchen floor, of course I mopped. What do you take me for?

All kinds of clean going on in my kitchen, now. You could eat corn dust off my floor. But watch out for the cat. He’s easy.

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