With a mixture of awe and despair playing xylophone on the back of my ribcage, I stared up at the pile of dishes. They started at the sink with chafing dishes and cookie sheets, then grew up in a column of pans and jars, passing the cabinets with bowls and plates, and stretching to the ceiling with cups and silverware. The stack wobbled precariously, disturbed by the slightest of a breeze leaking in through the window. There was grime, too, grime I doubted my lysol would touch.
The door to the kitchen swung open. “Greetings, Plum,” Mr. Conners said cheerfully, pulling up a cobwebby chair. “Word of the mouth is that you’re finally tackling The Beast.”
“This,” I said, " is The Beast?"
“She’s a monster, isn’t she? Monster!”
“I don’t know where to start.”
“How about at the top?” I could see Mr. Conner’s rosy smile before I even turned around. “You know, Plum, there’s a ladder for a reason.”
“My word,” I said, shaking my head. “You do need me.” I picked up a sponge and got to work.