There is a version of me that rinses everything twice and dries as it goes and puts each thing away the moment it's clean. I have met him twice. He was insufferable both times, and also, notably, not real — he was me, on two mornings, before either of us had anywhere to be.
The rest of the time the dishes sit. Some go crusty. A bowl becomes a load-bearing member of a small ceramic tower. And then, eventually, in one unglamorous ten-minute burst, it's all done — badly, quickly, with water everywhere — and the kitchen is clean again until it isn't.
I used to feel guilty about this. Now I think of it as batching, which is a word I stole from a productivity book I never finished, which feels appropriate.