When someone asked me what life was like when I lived in Budapest I would tell them about my washing machine. It was bigger than a breadbox but not by much — a small, square, metal box with some knobs. A hose ran from the sink into this box. I would turn on the hot water and let it fill.
This was done on the weekends with kids running around and me multi-tasking and so, more often than not, the tub runneth over. "Now I can also wash the kitchen floor! How efficient of me!"
The washing powder never, not once, dissolved. I put the clothes in anyway and pressed a button; the 'washing machine' for lack of a better word (like 'breadbox') would rotate one inch to the right and one inch to the left. I let it do that for a while as I mopped the kitchen floor. The process was reversed to 'rinse' the clothes. Again, severely impaired rotation commenced.
Drain the water. Wring out the clothes and hang them up. Try to iron shirts that have been wrung out like this. Just try. My husband was kind enough to point out that I failed. I said he could take his shirts and — take his shirts to the cleaners, yes, that's what I said.
The stove wasn't much bigger — it barely held a chicken. My sister came to visit, looked around the kitchen and said, "I thought you said you had an oven." Yes, well.