Hair ribbons. Aprons. They lend beauty to the ordinary, everyday tasks of dishes and dusting. They make it easier to have a spring in my step as I go about the same housewifely rituals I know must-needs be done again tomorrow. There’s something about these little touches of femininity that make me feel like I’ve stepped out of Little Women or Little House on the Prairie.
Over-mixed cakes. Cookies that taste like a bit too much something was added. Licking the vanilla spoon. Sampling the dough with no thought of raw eggs. Little floury hand-prints everywhere.
Little helpers in little aprons. They make cooking a joyful mess!
The thing I love about aprons is that they are so practical. I mean, what is an apron for, but to get soiled—and in so doing protect what you’re wearing underneath? “Go and make yourself tidy. Your hands are dirty, your apron soiled, and your hair looks as if it hadn’t been combed for a…
Why do some women love to cook? Because behind their skill deciphering a recipe and prowess with a mixer is the hidden secret of their talent: a darling apron.
I grew up looking at the pictures of my parents in their first little home (a trailer decked out in all those 70’s colors), my daddy wearing the hat as he prepared their first meal in their new home (an omelet—what else? my dad has always been the breakfast chef, especially on Sunday mornings), and them sneaking a kiss behind the “Kiss the Cook” washcloth.
They hang there in my kitchen. Often hidden by the bathroom door. Overflowing off a double hook screwed to the pantry cupboard. My aprons. All seven of them—and counting. They hang under the double-sided spice chart telling me which herb to choose for poultry or for beef. Adding to the vintage look of that corner…
There is a row of hooks behind the door in my grandmother’s walk-in pantry. Each hook holds a hanger upon which is carefully hung an apron. The pantry is in a newly remodeled section of the house, but the aprons speak of vintage kitchens in older homes of previous generations. Oh the stories they could tell!
I have not forgotten. But my children weren’t even there to remember.
I realized the person on the radio was right—to my children, the stories of 9-11 will be like the stories of Pearl Harbor were to me, to my parents.
Summer is almost over. I feel it in the crisp, cool mornings that make us pull out the sweaters and hoodies. I see it in the red-tinged leaves of our Maple tree. The summer I dreaded, anticipating the craziness of a summer schedule with three little ones under three. The same summer in which I…
This month at YLCF we’re walking down memory lane and re-posting some articles from the print YLCF Journals. It’s been quite the walk down memory lane. And it’s been fun, even if it has give me ample opportunity to laugh at my former self when I find a bit of “mud on memory lane” like…
“When’s a good time to call?” Several friends have asked me the same question recently. I suppose my lack of response has answered as well as I could have. When is a good time to call a mom of little people? In the morning when she’s getting breakfast on the table and laundry in the…
They think I’m beautiful in my pink plaid pajama pants. The same ones I bought at Old Navy at least six years ago, and obviously haven’t worn in a while, due to the exclamations from my daughters over them this morning. My husband thinks I’m beautiful in the bigger-than-I’ve-ever-bought-before American Eagle jeans and a tank…
The End.
The End.