I walked into the kitchen to see my wife cooking dinner. God shes beautiful in that purple apron . i never want to leave her. i will stay with her forever
I can still remember the feel of the crisp white apron, forever smelling of flour and Mummy. Sometimes we’d wear it, the hem crumpling against the flour as we “helped” with baking cookies, awkwardly smashing an egg on a bowl rim or tipping in sugar in the manner of burying treasure. There’s no taste better than cookie dough, both that which is stolen and that which is given lovingly as little rolled tokens.
I remembered everything, even the things I swore I’d forget.
I remembered her apple pie on Winter Solstice and her smile with a cracked, bleeding lip, after she’d just hit the Minister.
Something about her fearlessness screamed of strength and courage. She was the spitting image of her mother, all done over twice, with a cherry and a half on top.
But when I saw her in that chicken yellow apron, I could only see a little girl with her father’s eyes and bright purple rainboots.
very useful and creative. there are a hundred million ways to customize your own and you can never run out of ideas. the design concept stays the same and i have never seen anyone ever change the pattern of an apron. its a timeless piece of clothing that looks great on women and hilarious on men. aprons are awesome!
This is my mother’s favourite gift. She likes the ’50s housewife ones – the ones without the bib. You can’t buy them at stores – you have to make them or find them in vintage places. They take about a metre of fabric and an hour of sewing.
like the stained pants of a painter, a material collecting the escaping components of one’s chosen art. an identifying wardrobe to credit the creator with the inspiration for emotions stirred in their audience, be them eaters, gazers, or listeners.
but, it also could simply be a costume in a porno.
She remembers tiny, sheer pink frills lining the apron of an older woman. Maybe it was her mother, maybe it was her grandmother. Hard to tell. The memory is fuzzy. Sometimes she thinks about it in contrast to her own off-white, standard issue thing. Could barely be called an apron. More like a wear-able towel for when she slices off their feet and splatters blood up her arms.
To most people it was just an apron. To my family it was magical. Not literally of course, but it was a family heirloom. My great great grandmother had made the blasted thing. It was one of the ugliest things that I’d ever seen in my life but my mother insisted on keeping it in the kitchen. Where everybody could see it. It was booger green with ugly orange flowers embroidered on it.
white, used for cooking. My mom has a colorful when but we never use it. In fact, she never really cooks. Only my grandma does. And even then, it’s always the same exact food. I really love to bake, but I’m terrible. I guess it runs in the family… But my grandpa owns a bakery. My cousin is studying to major in owning a restaurant
The word is pretty much like a huge joke to me. Although my best friend did make me a lovely one for either my birthday or for Christmas. It’s been so long I can hardly remember what the exact occasion was. It pains me slightly in that I don’t really wear it all that often except to pretend play that I’m a 1950’s wife outfitted in that apron and adorn with a string of pearls. Black ballet flats completed this ensemble. It was a novelty to be sure. I even made my husband a drink in that get up, it was great research for a character I’ll write about someday. But in real life, well, in real life I’m hardly that nice. I hate it when men bring me my coffee iced. And I’ve been to known to threaten to backhand a man or two.
More flower covered our faces than the amount needed for our cookies. With aprons covering our ten year old bodies, we giggled at our failed attempt at a cooking show. I guess we never were meant to be Rachel Ray and Buddy Valastro, but that’s okay because they were memories in the making.
It wasn’t anything special, but it was home. He loved walking in there every day and seeing Colleen with that apron around her waist. She was the youngest employee there and seemed so out of place. She should be doing bigger and better things with her life. And he swore he’d make that happen.
She worked hard all day
dinner is in the oven
she waits
And waits
her whole day away.
One little meal is all she needs
Hours of preperation and money spent
for a meal that only dirtied her apron.
Even though she was a staunch feminist, she relished playing the role of the 1950’s domestic goddess. He liked dressing her up in that role too. Just last week, he bought her an adorable vintage-style flowered apron. At present, she was baking him an apple pie, but the baking was really just an excuse to be wearing only the apron, a strand of pearls, and lace undergarments when he arrived home from work.
I tied the apron around my waist, and just as I do every other day began cooking breakfast for the family. Soon after that I would be beginning the laundry, and even better, cleaning the house. All of this is not what a woman should be prejudiced to do. I want to fulfill my dreams, go to college and become a hard working veterinarian. I’m gonna make the change, make a difference;I am not the kind of girl that will be shackled down and confined, I am going to break those binds and take charge.
He threw off the blood-splattered apron as he ran toward the door. He tried to grab for the doorknob but he just couldn’t look away from the mess he had just made. He wasn’t appalled or in shock, he was actually extremely ecstatic. He’d been wanting to brutally murder someone for some time now. There was no way he’d get caught now, he was leaving the country in less than half an hour. He smiled at the masterpiece on the wall that he drew with blood. This was his art, he thought. It’s not like he’d ever known the guy, he just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.
He tied the stings of the apron around his waist, then picking up the saw, he placed it against the torso of the body that lay lifeless on the table before him. Smiling as he made the first cut. Would he wake up before he had finished he wondered? that thought made him chuckle to himself.
my mothers apron. small, fastidious. the messes-prevented. my tears-wiped, my heart-sewn back together, as if the tiny stitches meticulously holding the apron together were also for my heart. my mother, the smell of peppermints in her apron pocket, and the mending of a young girls broken heart. my memories.
I gathered the folds of her apron in my hands and breathed in deeply. It smelled like honey, flour, and cinnamon.
“Chil’ what you doin’?” She asked, smiling.
I jumped. I was not supposed to be in Daddy’s cook’s kitchen.
Aprons are so homey. I rarely wear them. Actually I only wear them when I’m at my parents’ house for the holidays and we’re all in the kitchen making our favorites. This year I wore a Christmasy one with a poinsettia on it.
Mary said, “Aunt Maggie, you’re going to have to wash my apron today! I got powdered sugar all over it!” “My apron needs washing. too.” I replied. “But weren’t the cookies worth it?”
Her apron was covered in white flour and cinnimon, her hands dusted to match. Streaks of white ran down her face, as well. She relaesed a heavy sigh, exhausted from the days work. Suddenly, Mr. Andrew bursted into the kitchen. His fine suit was slightly rumpled after his day at the office, his hair shooed to one side of his forehead. “Oh, Eliza, it smells simply marvelous in here!” He raved, smiling. Eliza blushed, as always, dreams spinning around in her head like batter through a mixing bowl. “Now, you didn’t work yourslef too hard today, did you?” Mr. Andrew asked, concern lining his, in Eliza’s opinion, flawless face. “No.” Eliza answered, blushing harder.
My mother wore an apron in the 1970’s. however, so did my next door neighbour’s mother, Margaret. She, during my first feelings of sexuality, made me see what was attractive about an apron. God bless Aunty Margaret.
It was an old, ratty yellow thing, a castoff from the late ’60s hanging in my grandmother’s linen closet. But I LOVED that thing, tying it on, wrapping it around my skinny five-year-old body and playing house. And the best thing was, it always made Nannie laugh when I did it. Her smiles were rare, her laughs even rarer…and that ole apron was one way I helped.
I made an apron once. I was 7 years old and it was my first sewing project. I wanted to learn to use the sewing machine but my mother insisted that before I sewed on the machine, I must learn to sew by hand. The apron was a project that allowed me to work on straight seams and small stitches. I wore that apron proudly as a young girl. I still have it upstairs in the cedar chest.
The apron I wear is none exsistant. I get into the kitchen and in an instant my worry of being messy disappears. Why put on an apron it takes out the fun of baking!
It makes me think about my Mom who loves to cook It’s a comforting thing. Delicious smells of yummy food. No wonder I have such a love for food! Aprons come in so many different styles and they are always fun. BBQ aprons, aprons with silly sayings or funny pictures. They seem to say something about the character of the person who’s wearing them. Aprons are a culture unto themselves.
the warm dry place my mom kept her best smelling secrets, where she wiped a full days work off her weary hands, where a deep breath (nose first) could often solve whatever wrong that was
I walked into the kitchen to see my wife cooking dinner. God shes beautiful in that purple apron . i never want to leave her. i will stay with her forever
I can still remember the feel of the crisp white apron, forever smelling of flour and Mummy. Sometimes we’d wear it, the hem crumpling against the flour as we “helped” with baking cookies, awkwardly smashing an egg on a bowl rim or tipping in sugar in the manner of burying treasure. There’s no taste better than cookie dough, both that which is stolen and that which is given lovingly as little rolled tokens.
When I saw it, I thought of her.
I remembered everything, even the things I swore I’d forget.
I remembered her apple pie on Winter Solstice and her smile with a cracked, bleeding lip, after she’d just hit the Minister.
Something about her fearlessness screamed of strength and courage. She was the spitting image of her mother, all done over twice, with a cherry and a half on top.
But when I saw her in that chicken yellow apron, I could only see a little girl with her father’s eyes and bright purple rainboots.
very useful and creative. there are a hundred million ways to customize your own and you can never run out of ideas. the design concept stays the same and i have never seen anyone ever change the pattern of an apron. its a timeless piece of clothing that looks great on women and hilarious on men. aprons are awesome!
This is my mother’s favourite gift. She likes the ’50s housewife ones – the ones without the bib. You can’t buy them at stores – you have to make them or find them in vintage places. They take about a metre of fabric and an hour of sewing.
like the stained pants of a painter, a material collecting the escaping components of one’s chosen art. an identifying wardrobe to credit the creator with the inspiration for emotions stirred in their audience, be them eaters, gazers, or listeners.
but, it also could simply be a costume in a porno.
She remembers tiny, sheer pink frills lining the apron of an older woman. Maybe it was her mother, maybe it was her grandmother. Hard to tell. The memory is fuzzy. Sometimes she thinks about it in contrast to her own off-white, standard issue thing. Could barely be called an apron. More like a wear-able towel for when she slices off their feet and splatters blood up her arms.
The ape on his apron furiously butchered his dish.
Her apron was perfectly clean and white. So was mine.
Then we had the food fight, splattering ketchup and other foods across the walls….and our aprons.
Now both the room and our aprons are…very colorful, to say the least.
End of story.
To most people it was just an apron. To my family it was magical. Not literally of course, but it was a family heirloom. My great great grandmother had made the blasted thing. It was one of the ugliest things that I’d ever seen in my life but my mother insisted on keeping it in the kitchen. Where everybody could see it. It was booger green with ugly orange flowers embroidered on it.
white, used for cooking. My mom has a colorful when but we never use it. In fact, she never really cooks. Only my grandma does. And even then, it’s always the same exact food. I really love to bake, but I’m terrible. I guess it runs in the family… But my grandpa owns a bakery. My cousin is studying to major in owning a restaurant
grandma love me happiness contentment white brittney family brownies love
The word is pretty much like a huge joke to me. Although my best friend did make me a lovely one for either my birthday or for Christmas. It’s been so long I can hardly remember what the exact occasion was. It pains me slightly in that I don’t really wear it all that often except to pretend play that I’m a 1950’s wife outfitted in that apron and adorn with a string of pearls. Black ballet flats completed this ensemble. It was a novelty to be sure. I even made my husband a drink in that get up, it was great research for a character I’ll write about someday. But in real life, well, in real life I’m hardly that nice. I hate it when men bring me my coffee iced. And I’ve been to known to threaten to backhand a man or two.
More flower covered our faces than the amount needed for our cookies. With aprons covering our ten year old bodies, we giggled at our failed attempt at a cooking show. I guess we never were meant to be Rachel Ray and Buddy Valastro, but that’s okay because they were memories in the making.
It wasn’t anything special, but it was home. He loved walking in there every day and seeing Colleen with that apron around her waist. She was the youngest employee there and seemed so out of place. She should be doing bigger and better things with her life. And he swore he’d make that happen.
Apron is not a pronoun, but it could be pronounced with a regular flare. A ruffle, a tye, a big blue dot for an eye.
She worked hard all day
dinner is in the oven
she waits
And waits
her whole day away.
One little meal is all she needs
Hours of preperation and money spent
for a meal that only dirtied her apron.
Even though she was a staunch feminist, she relished playing the role of the 1950’s domestic goddess. He liked dressing her up in that role too. Just last week, he bought her an adorable vintage-style flowered apron. At present, she was baking him an apple pie, but the baking was really just an excuse to be wearing only the apron, a strand of pearls, and lace undergarments when he arrived home from work.
I tied the apron around my waist, and just as I do every other day began cooking breakfast for the family. Soon after that I would be beginning the laundry, and even better, cleaning the house. All of this is not what a woman should be prejudiced to do. I want to fulfill my dreams, go to college and become a hard working veterinarian. I’m gonna make the change, make a difference;I am not the kind of girl that will be shackled down and confined, I am going to break those binds and take charge.
He threw off the blood-splattered apron as he ran toward the door. He tried to grab for the doorknob but he just couldn’t look away from the mess he had just made. He wasn’t appalled or in shock, he was actually extremely ecstatic. He’d been wanting to brutally murder someone for some time now. There was no way he’d get caught now, he was leaving the country in less than half an hour. He smiled at the masterpiece on the wall that he drew with blood. This was his art, he thought. It’s not like he’d ever known the guy, he just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.
The only time a beautiful light pastel coloured 1950s halterneck dress should be covered up is if it’s by a pink frilly apron. I love that look :)
He tied the stings of the apron around his waist, then picking up the saw, he placed it against the torso of the body that lay lifeless on the table before him. Smiling as he made the first cut. Would he wake up before he had finished he wondered? that thought made him chuckle to himself.
my mothers apron. small, fastidious. the messes-prevented. my tears-wiped, my heart-sewn back together, as if the tiny stitches meticulously holding the apron together were also for my heart. my mother, the smell of peppermints in her apron pocket, and the mending of a young girls broken heart. my memories.
I gathered the folds of her apron in my hands and breathed in deeply. It smelled like honey, flour, and cinnamon.
“Chil’ what you doin’?” She asked, smiling.
I jumped. I was not supposed to be in Daddy’s cook’s kitchen.
She wiped all my tears with her apron with forced sweetness, I felt as she was suffering while she did it.
Servitude, food, stage. I like the 2nd & 3rd words. The first is for somebody else.
Aprons are so homey. I rarely wear them. Actually I only wear them when I’m at my parents’ house for the holidays and we’re all in the kitchen making our favorites. This year I wore a Christmasy one with a poinsettia on it.
Mary said, “Aunt Maggie, you’re going to have to wash my apron today! I got powdered sugar all over it!” “My apron needs washing. too.” I replied. “But weren’t the cookies worth it?”
Her apron was covered in white flour and cinnimon, her hands dusted to match. Streaks of white ran down her face, as well. She relaesed a heavy sigh, exhausted from the days work. Suddenly, Mr. Andrew bursted into the kitchen. His fine suit was slightly rumpled after his day at the office, his hair shooed to one side of his forehead. “Oh, Eliza, it smells simply marvelous in here!” He raved, smiling. Eliza blushed, as always, dreams spinning around in her head like batter through a mixing bowl. “Now, you didn’t work yourslef too hard today, did you?” Mr. Andrew asked, concern lining his, in Eliza’s opinion, flawless face. “No.” Eliza answered, blushing harder.
You know… i want an apron… one that has a Darth Vader chest unit on it. Come over to the dark side…we have cookies :3
My mother wore an apron in the 1970’s. however, so did my next door neighbour’s mother, Margaret. She, during my first feelings of sexuality, made me see what was attractive about an apron. God bless Aunty Margaret.
A dark-blue affair, speckled
with white flowers
Rough cloth made smooth by wear, tired seams
stains hidden conveniently
nevertheless
Here we are
Here is the kitchen
The dust-motes flicker, illuminated
by dust
It was an old, ratty yellow thing, a castoff from the late ’60s hanging in my grandmother’s linen closet. But I LOVED that thing, tying it on, wrapping it around my skinny five-year-old body and playing house. And the best thing was, it always made Nannie laugh when I did it. Her smiles were rare, her laughs even rarer…and that ole apron was one way I helped.
I made an apron once. I was 7 years old and it was my first sewing project. I wanted to learn to use the sewing machine but my mother insisted that before I sewed on the machine, I must learn to sew by hand. The apron was a project that allowed me to work on straight seams and small stitches. I wore that apron proudly as a young girl. I still have it upstairs in the cedar chest.
The apron I wear is none exsistant. I get into the kitchen and in an instant my worry of being messy disappears. Why put on an apron it takes out the fun of baking!
It makes me think about my Mom who loves to cook It’s a comforting thing. Delicious smells of yummy food. No wonder I have such a love for food! Aprons come in so many different styles and they are always fun. BBQ aprons, aprons with silly sayings or funny pictures. They seem to say something about the character of the person who’s wearing them. Aprons are a culture unto themselves.
The red and white checkered apron lay on the bottom of the drawer, coated in a thin dusting of flour.
My apron all splattered, shows the fun, the love, the creativity of making a good meal. I’m in the present moment and loving it!
the warm dry place my mom kept her best smelling secrets, where she wiped a full days work off her weary hands, where a deep breath (nose first) could often solve whatever wrong that was
apron … a cover which hides that which is behind it … what shall it reveal .. in it’s movement … a glimpse into the unknown .. surrender to surprise …