The Never Ending.....

We’ve all had that song stuck in our heads. You know the one—“This is the song that never ends, yes, it goes on and on, my friend. . .”? Yep. That little earworm that loops itself into your brain until you start twitching involuntarily and muttering lyrics under your breath in the produce aisle. Or maybe you remember The NeverEnding Story movie—complete with the giant flying dog-dragon thing that looks like it belongs in a Lisa Frank binder.

Well, today I didn’t have a song or a story stuck on repeat. Today, I had The Never Ending Kitchen.

It began, as these things always do, with good intentions and a pile of dirty dishes. Now, I could have done them last night, but let’s be honest—Sunday is the Lord’s day, and I firmly believe He wouldn’t want me elbow-deep in dishwater when I could be on the couch under a blanket pretending not to hear the chaos in the kitchen.

So Monday morning greets me with a mountain of crusty reminders that last night’s supper was, in fact, a thing. First chore: clean kitchen. That includes unloading the dishwasher, refilling it with every dish in a 20-mile radius, scrubbing the pots and pans that didn’t make the cut, and wiping down the counters and stove so it looks like I have my act together.

Next? Out to do the goat milking, collect eggs, and take care of barn chores. Then into the milk room—or as I like to call it, “The Barn Kitchen”—because why limit the madness to one building?

Back in the house, time for breakfast. Which— you guessed it—creates more dirty dishes. Clean kitchen.

Toss in a load of laundry. Then decide to make a batch of cajeta because I like to overachieve on Mondays. (If you don’t know what cajeta is, consider yourself lucky—you don’t know what you’re missing. If you do know, grab a napkin. You’re drooling.)

Cajeta on the stove. Clean kitchen.

Switch laundry to dryer. Get a snack. Dirty plate. Clean kitchen.

Check email. Go for a walk with the goats and dogs because, at this point, I need to be outdoors or I will fuse to my kitchen floor.

Return home. Lunchtime! More dirty dishes. Clean kitchen. Fold laundry. Cajeta’s done. Strain it, jar it, refrigerate it. Clean kitchen.

Make a batch of ricotta because apparently I’ve given up on sitting down today. Clean kitchen.

By the time Jim rolls in from work, I’m back at it again—cooking supper and mentally preparing myself for the next round of. . . yep. . . you guessed it: Clean. Kitchen.

Are you picking up on a pattern here? Because The Never Ending Kitchen is real, folks. I think it’s been cursed. Or enchanted. Or possessed by the ghost of June Cleaver with a bad attitude and a sink fetish.

Now, I know some folks would say, “Why not just do it all at once? Let the mess build up and clean it once at the end of the day.” And to those people I say: “How do you live like that?!” I can’t function in chaos. I start twitching when the spatula’s in the sink instead of the drawer. It’s not a choice—it’s survival.

So I clean as I go. And go. And go. Some days, it feels like I’m trapped in an endless loop of suds and crumbs, like I’ve been sentenced to some sort of culinary purgatory. But at least I’m not barefoot and pregnant. Just barefoot and mildly unhinged.

Stay strong, my fellow dish warriors. We may not win the battle, but we will wipe down that counter one more time.

Please leave a comment below. I love hearing from you.