F1000008 Laundry Cropped

I Love Laundry

How pleasing it is to have my own washing machine. If all isn’t right with the world, not even in my world, at least the laundry cycle is functioning.

T

here it lies, within my big wicker laundry hamper, awaiting processing. True, there are some disorderly aspects to my laundry life. Items which don’t smell enough to merit washing are piled up outside the hamper, a messy and slightly distressing arrangement, representing as they do to me a disorderly life. But let us also leave them, just as I do, for we are dealing here with the laundry, not the out-of-the-laundry.

Ah how pleasing it is to have mine own washing machine. When I moved into this new place, a washing machine was even more urgent than a refrigerator. My Mum, as she is so good at doing, found me a used one for about $100, and arranged its delivery. There it sits in the bathroom, its top covered for added decoration by a zebra-patterned black-and-white towel, which, come to think of it, she also got. If I was a proud man I’d erase this whole entry right now.

I got no dryer. Although I love gadgets, I prefer small ones with magical functions, and to me a dryer seems superfluous, merely a speeding-up of what will happen anyway by letting nature take its course. Besides, I don’t know where I’d put it, and I don’t fancy a skyscraper in the bathroom by stacking it on top of the washing machine, losing what is now fabricked counter-top space. [Update 6.5 years later, Sunday, April 4th, 2010: I did get a dryer (also found by my Mum on the Ra’anana list) and used it as a divider between the kitchen and living area and it was great.]

Now, the laundry hamper fits strategically in the spot between the bedroom and the bathroom, convenient therefore to both fill and empty. To empty, it is simply dragged a foot or two into the bathroom, and we commence loading. The smell of the washing powder is strong and therefore quite evocative; without any particular memory dominating, it nonetheless brings back all the places I’ve lived. The cycle has begun!

Although I like quiet, I find the noise of the washing machine reassuring. Whereas the fridge is quieter, it’s annoying because I never know when it is going to click on. The washing machine, though, is reassurance that I am maintaining the cycles of domesticity. Perhaps that’s why women tend to detest laundry; it reminds them that after all this time, they are still doing the bloody laundry. But for me, and possibly for other males, it is an exercise in independence, which is but a step away from freedom. Strange, eh? For men laundry can suggest freedom, for women, captivity.

So yes, the sound of the washing machine means that my home is indeed getting the modicum of manual intervention it requires from me. If all isn’t right with the world, not even in my world, at least the laundry cycle is functioning.

Then, when the machine’s role is over, I must mildly exercise my stunted time management muscles and evacuate the soggy clothes from the machine before they sit too long, otherwise they go smelly and I must run the cycle again, a pointless waste. This does happen occasionally. But let us be done with such unpleasantness, and move along to the next stage: the transfer of items from machine to washing line!

For this express purpose I purchased a sturdy plastic creamy yellow laundry basket from Keter, the inexpensive Israeli domestic plastic products company whose stock I would recommend if it’s public. This goes on the floor in front of the washing machine, and the mass is pulled out and by dint of gravity falls into place.

And now to the piece de resistance: I carry the basket to the kitchen window and place it outside on the window ledge. Then I go out the house, around the side, and there is my laundry line, complete with basket next to it, ready to be placed. I don’t know why but I love this part. First, it’s an incredibly picturesque spot. All I hear are the birds chirping, and there is no one around, and just a view of the hills of Aminadav Forest in the background and the grape vine in the foreground. Sometimes I prepare a cup of tea for this clothes-hanging ceremonial, though I haven’t yet learned to hold the cup and place the laundry at the same time, and it’s unlikely I ever will.

There are few things I find more peaceful and tranquil and mildly exciting than this activity. Perhaps riding the bus from the long-term airport car park to the departure terminal providing I have arrived in plenty of time? No, that mixture is very different, less peaceful, more exciting. Getting into the car for a nice, relatively long journey, complete with a fresh set of tunes in the MP3 player and a hot beverage? Again, a bit higher on the excitement, and a bit more abstract, because the laying of the laundry is very sense-oriented. You’ve got the wetness, and of course, the smell of cleaned textiles contrasting with the smell of outside.

Removing the dry items from the line is unfortunately an anti-climax, less exciting than placing them, but the cycle does hold in store one more pleasure that is more than mere epilogue: ironing.

I seldom bother ironing trousers, but I find unironed shirts rather contemptible, and I always iron mine. The ironing board is pulled out of its ingenious storing space ⁠— stuffed into the gap between the fridge and the wall ⁠— and the iron, a Black & Decker I’ve had for about ten years now, is also extracted from its garage, unwrapped, and plugged into the industrial-looking transformer, as we’re not in Illinois anymore.

Many claim to detest ironing whereas I like the notion of searing hot metal smoothing damp wrinkled fabric. I also find bare-chested ironing to be macho. Maybe it was the TV ad that got to me, for Lee jeans I think it was, but still, the ad was merely tapping into a feeling that is already there. It’s like how I used to wear pink in high school: I thought it was very macho, proving I had no qualms about hints of cross-dressing ⁠— though I realize now that I am not quite macho-looking enough to get away with it, and people thought I was a homo.

Indeed, I’ve even offered to iron guests’ shirts, though neither my Dad nor Juan Carlos took me up on this strange and confusing offer.

Amen.

The Trail

Wednesday, June 17th, 2026

Amit Segal, longer than usual for his It’s Noon in Israel newsletter, posits the perennial faultline in Israel politics: Jewish vs Israeli.

“Jewish” and “Israeli” are simply the two tenets of Israel’s self-definition as a Jewish and democratic state ⁠— not in open contradiction, since most Israelis hold both, but forever rubbing against each other. Like asking whether strawberry-banana yogurt is more strawberry or banana, Israelis are endlessly asked, in one disguise or another, whether they are slightly more Jewish than democratic or the reverse. Once you see it, most of the news in the country ⁠— most push notifications, most studio shouting matches ⁠— dissolves into that same question, with a thin veneer of fresh event on top.

Segal himself straddles the divide nicely, as does the society writ large, part and parcel of the fading Ashkenazi/Sephardi divide. In my thin slice of observation, secular Israelis who delight in eating swine abroad now light candles and recite more complete prayers at home for Friday night dinner than they used to ⁠— indeed holding Friday night dinner itself is the gateway. And there are so many gateways.

I do however take issue with Amit’s characterization of the Israeli/left side:

Of course we are Jewish, the left answers ⁠— the flag is essentially a prayer shawl, the emblem is the Temple menorah, every kindergartner comes home Friday with a challah ⁠— but that is the décor, not the purpose; the purpose is to be the only democracy in the Middle East.

Instead, it seems to me that people on this side, those of the “villa in the jungle” view, would rather just forget about the jungle; being “the only X in the Middle East” is merely apologetics, not identity. Rather, it’s about being a liberal democracy simply because that is the enlightened, obvious, natural thing to be; anyone with a Yiddisher kopf can see that. And as for the Right downgrading democracy to merely being the operating system, well, that’s what Judaism itself arguably is too, so being the OS is no small thing.

I don’t go to synagogue but the synagogue that I don’t go to is Orthodox.

David Ben-Gurion

Friday, June 12th, 2026

Francesco Parrino is getting the Benny and Björn spirit of things here with his piano cover of Super Trouper, probably my favorite ABBA song ⁠— though like with other covers of his I’ve listened to, I enjoy the first half of the track more than the second.