I came home drunk last night and cooked something—a toasted bagel. I put the plate in the dishwasher, threw in some soap, turned it on and went to bed. The hours were all wrong. I was confused and passed out with the bagel on my pillow.
At nine I woke up and walked to the kitchen for water. And I got water—and foam. The entire floor was soaked in foam six inches tall. I stepped in the foam, got a glass of water, and sopped back to bed.
When I woke up at three—yes, three—I went back to the kitchen. The foam was gone and the floor was squeaky clean.
Was it all a dream? I decided to investigate.
The box of dishwasher detergent was empty. The antibacterial handsoap was, it would seem, my drunken way of cleaning the dishes. I must have used half the bottle, which lay in the sink looking guilty.
I turned the dishwasher on once more to rinse the dishes and foam poured out from the machine. “Shit!” I yelled, and unrolled long squares of papertowels on the floor, dancing on them and slipping around. Five minutes of internet investigation later, I returned to the crime scene with a bottle of vegetable oil and a prayer. I emptied a cup of Wesson into the machine and turned it on once more.
The foam stopped. The floor is squeaky clean.
The only downside, I think, is that I’m all out of oil. That and my dishes feel slightly greasy.