My apron was caked thick with dry crusted batter. His was, of course, still perfectly starched and flawless. But he didn’t seem to mind my tattered state. He even seemed quite amused by the streaks of chocolate that smudged my cheeks. “You know I wouldn’t hire you to work in my restaurant,” he chuckled. “You, Mr. could not afford me anyways.”
Laughter filled the dining room. I have never seen someone look so awkward walking around with a plate of food in their hands. Must have been the apron with the picture of an old man’s body in a muscle shirt. I love his sense of humor most of all.
John slowly wandered downstairs at the smell of something burnt wafting around 221B. Peeking his head around the corner into the kitchen, he was amused to find Sherlock, dressed in Mrs. Hudson’s apron (probably stolen), meticulously inspecting a pan of what would seem to be the scalded remains of eggs. The furrowed brow on the detective’s face made John chuckle, as Sherlock inspected the eggs as though trying to find a cause of death.
I will always think of my mother fondly; the way she would eagerly bustle around the kitchen preparing some sort of tasty treat for us kids. I remember the warmth radiating from the oven as delicious aromas of pies and quiches wafted through the room. I remember the dainty way she tied her apron around her plump frame, a picture perfect bow at the back of her rounded waist.
I put on the apron that my mother handed to me, and I patted flour onto my hands. She instructed me on how to knead the bread dough just so, and I closely watched her worn hands. I placed my smaller hands on the spot she touched and started to fold the bread justlikeher.
The apron hung half in, half out of the kitchen sink, dripping wet. With blood. It smeared the countertops and faucet. It was human. The blood pooled on the marble tiles, and then traveled in a smeared trail out the sliding glass doors and into the back yard. No one would know.
my mother making food. fiber, cloth, flower printed, floral, apple pies smelling so sweet, snow white biting into the apple, the wicked queen’s transformation, that black bird.
i hesitate to wear an apron when i cook or wash dishes because it seems to symbolize femininity or motherhood. my mom always wears an apron or a cooking coat. but in my case i wouldn’t look like her.
Mother’s apron, the front splashed with cake mix. A mixing bowl and a giant spoon, too big for my mouth, all for me to lick clean as the cake bakes in the oven of Mum’s kitchen.
The plane landed on the apron and roared to a stop. The engines cooled and slowed and the skin of the plane ticked slowly and shone dully as though rubbed with vaseline.
She wiped her floured hands along the sides of her already smeared apron. Her smile was dotted with bits of flour, a streak of chocolate along the side of her face. She smiled sugar and perfection.
Sink. Farmhouse. Baking. Togetherness. Learning. A twinkle in the eyes of my 2 year old niece, digging her hands into the flour. Rolling pins. Pies (cherry is a favorite.) Art. Painting. Craft time. Cheerfulness.
The dreams of a woman wearing an apron. She dreams of being independent and strong to be a role model to her children outside of her current domestication. She dreams of cutting the strings and flying away to become strong and independent. The dreams of a woman who can make an apron represent dreams aspirations and a sense of freedom as she sews them to sell in her shop. An apron can either bind a woman to a role she does not desire or it can be the catalyst that makes her dreams come true to an independent future.
No aprons, no shirt underneath, just a hoodie and oriental food in his kitchen with the lights down low on our second date.
I didn’t realize it yet but I was already in love with him.
I was stuck in a love I’d never be able to leave, sitting with a barely zipped hoodie and no pants in a kitchen chair while his parents weren’t home.
He laughed and kissed my hand.
I think I know what to do.
The dreams of a woman wearing an apron. She dreams of being independent and strong to be a roll model to her children outside of her domestic role. She dreams of cutting the strings and flying away to become strong and independent. The dreams of a woman who can make an apron represent dreams aspirations and a sense of freedom as she sews them to sell in her shop. An apron can either bind a woman to a role she does not desire or it can be the catalyst that makes her dreams come true to an independent future.
I put on my apron and laugh from joy. My children stood proudly next to May, who, even though my children denied it, stitched it herself.
“I picked out the color.” Catherine said, tossing her dark curls.
“I picked the design.” Calder piped up.
The stained apron the waitress was wearing reminded me of childhood. The way the mustard, ketchup and avocado mixed and mingled on what was otherwise a blank white palate reminded me of the fingerpainting I used to do in homeroom.
Covered over me like the blood over it. I could not stand the stench. Filthy! Filthy little liars and cowards all soaked on my apron! It’s appalling to me, sickening, making me feel ill, quickly, oh, now, that is a light!
Had Sally only known the lost need for her cooking; she would have laid down beaten utensils and walked out the door to live her life. Her family was certainly not making the most of it, why would they care if the chef left the building?
She gave me an apron for christmas. Not what you’d expect from a secret santa, but it was the essence of that warm fuzzy feeling that should envelop you during the holidays. I needed one and she somehow knew it…but now it sits in a corner, because I can’t bear to take life back as it was, now that my baby’s up in doggie heaven…
An apron is what you wear over your clothes while you’re baking so you don’t get flour or something on your clothes. My mom has an apron. Whenever I bake with her, we don’t wear aprons.
Mom’s favorite apron was red white and black plaid with white lace around. She wore it almost every day. After she died, my youngest sister took it. Now she wears the apron, reminding me of Mom every single time I see her in it.
The red and white apron hung on the hook by the door; it was her favorite one to wear every time she baked for him. She won’t be wearing it anymore. He left her yesterday.
I remember my mother would wake up early in the morning and first thing she did was put on her apron. It’s a great memory as the kitchen filled with food smell , the early coffee and the toast then the lunch came always home made, no delivery …
I love kitchen smells. All kinds. I love baking meat, ham, potatoes. I love the smell of pies. I love the sizzle of an egg and the perfect hash browns. Aprons remind me of kitchens which remind me of smells and since smells are the only one of the 5 senses that actually take you to a time and a place you’ve been before in history
I wore a white to bake my favorite sugar cookies with may two best girls today. We played in the flour, getting everywhere. The giggles were priceless and the cookies tasty.
Remember art smocks from when we were little? I had to bring one to nursery school and to part of elementary school too, I think? I had a couple of plastic smocks, and I also remember having a large man’s shirt at least one year. It was probably my father’s.
So practical.
I should probably wear smocks now. I have a set of already ruined paint/craft/hair dye clothes :)
Hillary took the speckled apron and draped it over her son’s chest, tying a simple butterfly knot around his back. He held the spatula in one tiny fist and the ladle in the other, grinning from ear to ear.
“Do I look like a cook now, Mommy?” he asked, the gap in his front teeth clearly showing.
Hillary smiled with watery eyes. “You look like a master.”
On Monday her apron was bought
On Tuesday it met her mother’s milk and her dribble
On Wednesday crumbs from plastic cakes
On Thursday apple juice
On Friday cider
On Saturday pig’s blood
On Sunday her own blood
she moved around the counters like a pro, kneading stirring and mixing. Chloe watched her, enchanted by the amazing smells that were starting to pour into the room. Her aunt had always been the best cook she knew, one day she hoped to follow in her footsteps, help run the restaurant and wear one of the red aprons.
There are worms in her apron, feeding on pie dough. If she is very still, she can hear them sliding up the hem tubes looking for the sop of splashed dishwater before it dries.
I reached for my apron in plain site. Bang goes the flap, he’s made his getaway. He hates when I put on my apron, it means bath time. Smiling I wait, he’ll be back.
I saw her standing in the light. She was glowing with an excitement like I had never seen. What was it she was holding in her hands? It was piping hot and she was smiling from ear to ear. Better yet why was she only wearing an apron?
I don’t own an apron, which probably means I don’t cook much. That’s true. When you have a family as picky as mine, the dinner menu basically consists of pizza, some kind of noodle dish and sandwiches. Maybe if I bought an apron, that would change. It’s worth a shot.
My very favorite apron is shades of pink and maroon and covered in a cupcake print! My dear friend Vicki sent it to me because, in a group we are both in, my nickname was “Cupcake” for a time. Good memories. :)
My apron was caked thick with dry crusted batter. His was, of course, still perfectly starched and flawless. But he didn’t seem to mind my tattered state. He even seemed quite amused by the streaks of chocolate that smudged my cheeks. “You know I wouldn’t hire you to work in my restaurant,” he chuckled. “You, Mr. could not afford me anyways.”
Her apron had two patterns. One side was flowers and butterflies and ladybugs, and the other was just plain black.
Laughter filled the dining room. I have never seen someone look so awkward walking around with a plate of food in their hands. Must have been the apron with the picture of an old man’s body in a muscle shirt. I love his sense of humor most of all.
John slowly wandered downstairs at the smell of something burnt wafting around 221B. Peeking his head around the corner into the kitchen, he was amused to find Sherlock, dressed in Mrs. Hudson’s apron (probably stolen), meticulously inspecting a pan of what would seem to be the scalded remains of eggs. The furrowed brow on the detective’s face made John chuckle, as Sherlock inspected the eggs as though trying to find a cause of death.
I will always think of my mother fondly; the way she would eagerly bustle around the kitchen preparing some sort of tasty treat for us kids. I remember the warmth radiating from the oven as delicious aromas of pies and quiches wafted through the room. I remember the dainty way she tied her apron around her plump frame, a picture perfect bow at the back of her rounded waist.
I put on the apron that my mother handed to me, and I patted flour onto my hands. She instructed me on how to knead the bread dough just so, and I closely watched her worn hands. I placed my smaller hands on the spot she touched and started to fold the bread justlikeher.
The apron hung half in, half out of the kitchen sink, dripping wet. With blood. It smeared the countertops and faucet. It was human. The blood pooled on the marble tiles, and then traveled in a smeared trail out the sliding glass doors and into the back yard. No one would know.
Grandma’s tear remover. A place to carry tools, flowers. fruits, veggies. Wipe your hands & come to the table.
my mother making food. fiber, cloth, flower printed, floral, apple pies smelling so sweet, snow white biting into the apple, the wicked queen’s transformation, that black bird.
i hesitate to wear an apron when i cook or wash dishes because it seems to symbolize femininity or motherhood. my mom always wears an apron or a cooking coat. but in my case i wouldn’t look like her.
Mother’s apron, the front splashed with cake mix. A mixing bowl and a giant spoon, too big for my mouth, all for me to lick clean as the cake bakes in the oven of Mum’s kitchen.
The plane landed on the apron and roared to a stop. The engines cooled and slowed and the skin of the plane ticked slowly and shone dully as though rubbed with vaseline.
She wiped her floured hands along the sides of her already smeared apron. Her smile was dotted with bits of flour, a streak of chocolate along the side of her face. She smiled sugar and perfection.
Sink. Farmhouse. Baking. Togetherness. Learning. A twinkle in the eyes of my 2 year old niece, digging her hands into the flour. Rolling pins. Pies (cherry is a favorite.) Art. Painting. Craft time. Cheerfulness.
The dreams of a woman wearing an apron. She dreams of being independent and strong to be a role model to her children outside of her current domestication. She dreams of cutting the strings and flying away to become strong and independent. The dreams of a woman who can make an apron represent dreams aspirations and a sense of freedom as she sews them to sell in her shop. An apron can either bind a woman to a role she does not desire or it can be the catalyst that makes her dreams come true to an independent future.
No aprons, no shirt underneath, just a hoodie and oriental food in his kitchen with the lights down low on our second date.
I didn’t realize it yet but I was already in love with him.
I was stuck in a love I’d never be able to leave, sitting with a barely zipped hoodie and no pants in a kitchen chair while his parents weren’t home.
He laughed and kissed my hand.
I think I know what to do.
The dreams of a woman wearing an apron. She dreams of being independent and strong to be a roll model to her children outside of her domestic role. She dreams of cutting the strings and flying away to become strong and independent. The dreams of a woman who can make an apron represent dreams aspirations and a sense of freedom as she sews them to sell in her shop. An apron can either bind a woman to a role she does not desire or it can be the catalyst that makes her dreams come true to an independent future.
Late mornings. Coffee brewing,
Sun shining. A warm
Kiss captures my lips; good morning.
I put on my apron and laugh from joy. My children stood proudly next to May, who, even though my children denied it, stitched it herself.
“I picked out the color.” Catherine said, tossing her dark curls.
“I picked the design.” Calder piped up.
motherly oversight, tied to convention…dripping with food stains of a hundred unappreciated meals.
The stained apron the waitress was wearing reminded me of childhood. The way the mustard, ketchup and avocado mixed and mingled on what was otherwise a blank white palate reminded me of the fingerpainting I used to do in homeroom.
Covered over me like the blood over it. I could not stand the stench. Filthy! Filthy little liars and cowards all soaked on my apron! It’s appalling to me, sickening, making me feel ill, quickly, oh, now, that is a light!
Had Sally only known the lost need for her cooking; she would have laid down beaten utensils and walked out the door to live her life. Her family was certainly not making the most of it, why would they care if the chef left the building?
She gave me an apron for christmas. Not what you’d expect from a secret santa, but it was the essence of that warm fuzzy feeling that should envelop you during the holidays. I needed one and she somehow knew it…but now it sits in a corner, because I can’t bear to take life back as it was, now that my baby’s up in doggie heaven…
An apron is what you wear over your clothes while you’re baking so you don’t get flour or something on your clothes. My mom has an apron. Whenever I bake with her, we don’t wear aprons.
Mom’s favorite apron was red white and black plaid with white lace around. She wore it almost every day. After she died, my youngest sister took it. Now she wears the apron, reminding me of Mom every single time I see her in it.
I am not the typical woman
who dons on aprons
and slaves over the stove.
My place is not hovering
over the twin terrors
whom clean your clothes.
My partner is not the vacuum.
I will not be your live in maid.
The red and white apron hung on the hook by the door; it was her favorite one to wear every time she baked for him. She won’t be wearing it anymore. He left her yesterday.
I remember my mother would wake up early in the morning and first thing she did was put on her apron. It’s a great memory as the kitchen filled with food smell , the early coffee and the toast then the lunch came always home made, no delivery …
I love kitchen smells. All kinds. I love baking meat, ham, potatoes. I love the smell of pies. I love the sizzle of an egg and the perfect hash browns. Aprons remind me of kitchens which remind me of smells and since smells are the only one of the 5 senses that actually take you to a time and a place you’ve been before in history
I wore a white to bake my favorite sugar cookies with may two best girls today. We played in the flour, getting everywhere. The giggles were priceless and the cookies tasty.
Apron
Smock
Remember art smocks from when we were little? I had to bring one to nursery school and to part of elementary school too, I think? I had a couple of plastic smocks, and I also remember having a large man’s shirt at least one year. It was probably my father’s.
So practical.
I should probably wear smocks now. I have a set of already ruined paint/craft/hair dye clothes :)
Hillary took the speckled apron and draped it over her son’s chest, tying a simple butterfly knot around his back. He held the spatula in one tiny fist and the ladle in the other, grinning from ear to ear.
“Do I look like a cook now, Mommy?” he asked, the gap in his front teeth clearly showing.
Hillary smiled with watery eyes. “You look like a master.”
On Monday her apron was bought
On Tuesday it met her mother’s milk and her dribble
On Wednesday crumbs from plastic cakes
On Thursday apple juice
On Friday cider
On Saturday pig’s blood
On Sunday her own blood
she moved around the counters like a pro, kneading stirring and mixing. Chloe watched her, enchanted by the amazing smells that were starting to pour into the room. Her aunt had always been the best cook she knew, one day she hoped to follow in her footsteps, help run the restaurant and wear one of the red aprons.
There are worms in her apron, feeding on pie dough. If she is very still, she can hear them sliding up the hem tubes looking for the sop of splashed dishwater before it dries.
I reached for my apron in plain site. Bang goes the flap, he’s made his getaway. He hates when I put on my apron, it means bath time. Smiling I wait, he’ll be back.
I saw her standing in the light. She was glowing with an excitement like I had never seen. What was it she was holding in her hands? It was piping hot and she was smiling from ear to ear. Better yet why was she only wearing an apron?
I don’t own an apron, which probably means I don’t cook much. That’s true. When you have a family as picky as mine, the dinner menu basically consists of pizza, some kind of noodle dish and sandwiches. Maybe if I bought an apron, that would change. It’s worth a shot.
Apron
My very favorite apron is shades of pink and maroon and covered in a cupcake print! My dear friend Vicki sent it to me because, in a group we are both in, my nickname was “Cupcake” for a time. Good memories. :)