Liver I have a new fancy washer and dryer. They are front-loading, bacteria-killing, über-environmentally efficient, space-age works of uncommon art. They have hundreds of options for every possible fabric in the world. You could wash and dry the Shroud of Turin in these things and it would be guaranteed safe. There are knobs and buttons and digital amber lights and delightful little bell tones that ping with each selection, like the sound of an idea, assuring that you have made a good and apparently very happy choice. They even have a “16-Hour Fresh Hold Option with Dynamic Venting Technology.” I don’t know what that is, but it is a good and happy choice. When dirty clothes are placed in the washer, the door seals shut like a vault—no “Oops, I found another pair of underwear to toss in.” All decisions are final. There is serious work to be done and it begins with a sequence of scientific evaluations. The washer drum tumbles the clothes for a moment. Then back the other way.
