My grandmothers wore aprons. My mother wore aprons. My mother in law considered them to be an integral part of kitchen wear. They adorned clotheslines on wash day, their ties flying flamboyantly in the breeze, proclaiming, “Here dwells a proper housewife”. They were a piece of the kitchen ritual. If the apron was ignored, if subsequent spills occurred, and if there was an unexpected knock at the door, the apron could graciously return to cover a multitude of sins.
Does anyone even use them anymore? I wonder. In my advanced age, I’m drawn to them. I’ve ignored them for too long, jumping into the next soup or chili project with abandon, splashing and flinging whatever concoction onto my unlucky top. Spills. Stubborn, unyielding stains. How long does it take to just stop for 10 seconds and don an apron?
And there’s this. I’ve recently been gifted with an apron by a dear relative. It hangs in my kitchen, a thing of beauty, shouting soundlessly in bright greens and oranges, begging to be noticed. Begging to be grabbed and put into use. Why wouldn’t I?
A good friend of mine who is a five-star cook says that she just wears old clothes in the kitchen, much as one would do when painting. Then she changes and throws her “cooking” clothes in the wash. Good idea, but too much like work for me. I’m going with the apron.
Wondering how many others still use them.