Pull the filter out of the dishwasher floor

On the floor of the tub, under the bottom rack and the spray arm, on the machines the people here describe: one account says pull the rack out, then twist or pull the round piece toward the front and lift it; some machines have two, and some have a disposal trough as well; the manual says which. Five separate conversations say clean it, and the prevalence notes explain why so many are shocked at what comes out — six accounts had never known the filter existed, four had run the machine for years without cleaning it, and two cautions warn that a never-cleaned one holds hair, slime and things you dropped. How often is argued in one exchange, one account each way: monthly against once a year, and two accounts rinse it after every use so a deep clean is never needed; three accounts say the filter is where to look before deciding the machine is broken. Now the correction, from three conversations and one correction: not every dishwasher has a removable filter. Some newer machines have a built-in self-cleaning one, a high-rated caution says; some older machines have a grinder instead of a filter, one account says; and one caution says many American machines have that grinder and you should check the manual before poking at it. Two accounts in one conversation had not known their machine had a filter at all, and three corrected them. A further correction: a dishwasher-cleaning tablet dissolves film and smell but does little for a physical blockage of hair and fluff, so the tablet is not a substitute for pulling the filter. One account pulled theirs, found it spotless, and the machine still washed badly; why a machine fails with a clean filter — spray arms, water temperature — is a gap in these conversations, and this page does not fill it.

The people here argue this in five separate exchanges and never settle it, so here are both sides with their counts. Three separate conversations say do not rinse: modern detergents use enzymes that need food residue to work on, and one caution says rinsed plates can interfere with a modern machine’s sensors and give a worse wash. Two conversations say rinse the debris off to protect the filter and skip the second cycle, and one exchange, two accounts to two, splits exactly there — one side scrapes into the bin and lets the machine do the rest to save water, the other rinses eggs and syrup or runs it twice. In another conversation two accounts say if you are scrubbing with soap first you might as well hand-wash; the answer given, in three conversations, is that the machine still sanitises with heat even when the scrubbing was yours. The US Energy Star programme’s line, which this page carries as its own, sides with the scrapers: rinsing before loading increases the total water and energy used, so scrape the food off and let the machine and the detergent do the cleaning. The accounts’ own decider is the machine: a model with a grinder handles chunks left two days, two accounts say, while a machine that only sprays and does not scrub needs baked-on food dealt with by hand. Whatever you do, scrape the starch — the safety line above has why.

That is the argument rendered below, three accounts to six. The short version: on a machine plumbed to the hot-water line, running the kitchen tap until it runs hot means the first fill is hot rather than the cold water sitting in the pipe, and one caution says a machine that cannot heat its own water washes cold otherwise; but six accounts across three conversations say many machines — especially in Europe, and some in the US — fill from the cold line and heat the water themselves, to around 170°F by one account’s figure, so the tap trick does nothing for them. Which one you have is in the manual or under the sink.

Sharp knives, cast iron, wood, and anything with a finish you care about, the people here say across two conversations and a run of contraindications — and then they correct each other on the details. Knives: one correction says the rule is for sharp kitchen knives — chef’s, bread — which dull and, one caution says, cut the rack coating; steak and butter knives are generally fine, unless the handles are wooden, and one caution and two contraindications say wooden handles and wooden anything suffer in the water and heat. Cast iron: two contraindications say never, and one correction quotes a cast-iron maker’s own care guidance as hand-wash gently, no abrasive scraper, and soap is fine — the point is the seasoning, not avoiding soap altogether; one account cleans with salt and oil instead, and one exchange, two accounts to one, has someone who does put cast iron through the machine and dries it straight after, against two who say the racks cannot hold it and it strips the seasoning. Enamelled cast iron splits the accounts too: one correction cites two makers saying their enamelled pieces are dishwasher-safe, while one caution says the enamel wears and cracks; the account citing the makers admits not knowing whom to trust, and this page does not decide for you — the rusty-skillet page linked below carries the cast-iron care. Also named by single accounts: non-stick pans, crystal, gold-leafed glasses, mugs with printed pictures, and plastic boxes, which one caution says crack sooner under heated dry.

Dishwasher detergent in any of those forms, and never hand dish soap; the safety line has why. Beyond that the accounts disagree by household: one says powder is cheapest and the fill line gets the dose right, one says pods are safest around pets that lick the floor, one says liquid is what gets flatmates to actually run the machine, and one exchange, one account each way, runs exactly that argument. One caution says too much detergent, or the wrong kind, jams the dispenser or clogs the drain line, and one account with soft water uses half the recommended dose and gets cleaner dishes without the soap smell; one caution says heavily scented cleaning packets can set off asthma, and unscented ones exist. Three separate conversations run a cycle with white vinegar, sometimes followed by baking soda, to shift film, smell and limescale, and two more run a cup of vinegar through now and then; whether that is needed at all if the filter is kept clean, and what years of vinegar do to the rubber seals, are gaps in these conversations. Drying: two conversations crack the door at the end of the cycle and let the dishes air-dry instead of using heated dry, which one caution says newer efficient machines do less well anyway; two cautions say a heated dry can bake residue on if the filter is dirty, and one says it cracks plastic boxes over time. Two loading lines from single accounts: unload the bottom rack first so the top rack does not drip on it, and mix forks and spoons in the basket so the spoons do not nest and block the water. One account runs the machine at night because their electricity is cheaper then — only true if your tariff has an off-peak rate.

Four separate conversations say yes, and the people here spend a lot of words on the fine print. Three conversations put the accounts’ figures at up to 27 gallons for a sink-and-tap wash against three or four gallons for an efficient machine, and one correction is that the article those figures come from claims water savings, not electricity savings. The US Energy Star programme’s own line, this page’s, is that a certified dishwasher uses less than half as much energy as hand-washing and saves 8,400 US gallons of water a year. The objection, made four times across the conversations, is that the comparison assumes a tap left running; one exchange runs two accounts to four on whether careful hand-washing with the tap off beats the machine, and three accounts admit they leave the tap on the whole time. One correction is a family story — a father who believed dishwashers wasted water in the 1970s, and a child who later found the modern ones do not. The honest limits: one exchange, one account to two, says the saving is too small to matter and the real gain is time; one account says a half-empty machine is not efficient, and how often a household should run it splits one account from two — every two or three days for a family of four, against three or four loads a day for a household of six with constant meals. And if you once ran it twice because you could not face scrubbing, nothing broke: the accounts who did say so.