Greetings, my fellow port swillers!

Ol’ Robbo was busy at work on the Port Swiller Manor porch this morning** when he suddenly smelled a funny odor, that distinct odor of something burning.

I went into the kitchen to track it down (the porch doors were open) and immediately realized it was coming from the dishwasher, in which I had set a load running a short time previously.

I pulled open the door, hoping that perhaps something plastic simply had fallen on the heating element at the bottom and melted there, but no joy.  I still dunno where exactly the stench was coming from, but it wasn’t from anything I’d put in the thing.  (It smelled like burning wires, actually.)


You know you’ve been a homeowner a long time when you start thinking in terms of appliance life-spans.  The dishwasher was not among the original fixtures when we bought the place (the only one of those remaining is the washing machine****), but we put it in within about two years of moving here.  That would make it around seventeen years old, which I suppose is a pretty decent run.  It was on its last legs anyway.  Cleaning power has dropped noticeably and a number of the cross-bars in the lower basket have rusted out, making loading a tricky thing.  (And guess who’s the only one around here who seems to appreciate that?)

So, here we are.  Any pro-tips about desirable makes and models would be appreciated.  I fear that “eco-friendly” restrictions have probably rendered most current options pretty much useless.

Not that I’m in any particular hurry to cough up the dosh for a replacement.  We’re down to three occupants at the moment, and even though one of them is a seventeen year old who seems to eat about six meals a day, washing by hand is very doable.  (And a drying rack is very cheap.)


**Tele-working, that is.  And I was definitely wearing pants, as it was rayther chilly and rainy today.

**** Which Youngest seems hell-bent on destroying, as she madly overloads it despite my repeated warnings not to.

UPDATE:  Friend of the Decanter Sleepy Beth’s mention of dishwasher noise in the comments provokes a bit of reminiscence and a confession that I actually like the sound of the thing running.

You see, back in Ol’ Robbo’s misspent yoot, the Old Gentleman typically toddled off to bed pretty early, but the Mothe was quite the night-owl.  Like me (and I suppose that’s where I got it), she needed a certain amount of alone time each day.  So she’d stay up late, usually reading.  Typically, the last thing she would do in the evening before heading off herself was to run the dishwa’ar (as we called it, for some reason).  I was usually still awake then, and hearing it became a sort of “Last Post” to me, a sign that all was safe and secure for the night.

Yes, I’m strange.  But you knew that already.