Apron Week Day One: No Need To Reinvent the Wheel

After I read j5t's comment in my Guestbook I started think about aprons. You know how some people can curl their tongue into a taco, and some have bendy fingers or hitchhikers thumb and it's all in the name of heredity? Well, I was born into a family with a grand genetic propensity to wear aprons.

My mother wore them non-stop, even to my piano recitals and to the mall. I think whatever you wear to the mall defines you in a small way. Think about it.

She wore her apron all the time because it had a front pocket for her checkbook. No one wrote more checks than my mother. She was the cause of deforestation in the Pacific Northwest. I know this is cliche, but I once actually saw her write a check in her sleep (how do you think I got my first Kate Spade?) I could go on, but it suffices me to say that the concept of the bank card was, physiologically, a difficult transition for the Councilwoman. And in many ways, it still is...

Do you think our children are going to even know what a check was? We'll be like, "...and that is when your Grandmother wrote him a check for the haircut and two donuts!"

"But Mom?"


What is a check?"
Making cakes with the Birthday Girl Herself & my favorite apron

Checks. Aprons. Checks. Aprons.

Back to Aprons.

Inside my mind's video storage is the day I went to visit my oldest sister Page when she was vastly pregnant with Numero Seven. She had on an apron with big pockets and had her little people (that she had already birthed) pick up things off the floor and put them into her pockets. She'd keep the contents, like the cordless phone, and use them at necessary times. This loading and unloading made bending for her nearly unnecessary. As a result, she was able to birth Numero Seven from the passenger's seat of their Land Rover. You can see how those two actions would correlate. And if you can't, then I throw my arms up in the air, and shake my head at you my fine sir.

Fruit tarts made, apron gone, clothes still clean.

On an academic level, aprons are a basic invention that needs no reinvention. Just yesterday I was making fruit tarts for my family and I used my full-coverage (aprons are like bras) brown-and-white flowered apron to wipe smudges of frosting from off my fingers. I know, I know, I could've just licked it off, but where--pray tell--is the fun in that?

And so I dub this Apron Week in honor of The Housewife's most trusted companion. And I hope that you will come along for the journey. But please be aware that by next week I will have to "cut the apron strings" and blog about something else, like I don't know, cuticles. Or cubicles. I have experience with both.

I'd like to post as many pictures of people in their aprons for an Apron Week Grande Finale. If you'd like to join in, please e-mail me your photo(s) at my brand spanking new e-mail address (Hotmail causes me Hotflashes, I should've left them years ago, I know) at cjanemail@gmail.com. Also, please include the history of your apron, like where it came from and how it was lucky enough to have you.

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