Just when I get comfortable with something, things change and something newer, faster, edgier takes its place. You could get whiplash from trying to keep up with latest developments.
Just when I mastered the word processor, along came the laptop and I had to learn how to produce the written word all over again. Just as I learned how to slice tomatoes without cutting off my thumb, along came the food processor.
But one thing that I don’t see much anymore is the lowly apron. Do our children even know what one is? Mine probably don’t since I came up through the ranks of the liberated woman who wouldn’t have been caught dead in an apron. Besides when you’ve got tee shirts and sweats, what does it matter?
My sweats are dotted with numerous stains which remind me of how clumsy I am in the kitchen. My friends usually guess what I’m cooking or what I’ve had for lunch. One of my children joked that he was giving me a HazMat suit for Christmas.
When I try to conjure up an image of my grandmother, I always see her in an apron. Not only did it protect her clothing from spills and spatters, it served as a potholder for removing hot pans from the oven, wiping the dust off the dining room table, and a place to keep her tissues.
Lately, I’ve been rethinking my negative attitude toward the apron. My friends Olivia and Ruthie are helping me along. Both have given me very functional and quite spiffy aprons – mostly as a joke.
Last night as I began my Thanksgiving marathon in the kitchen, I suddenly had the urge to wear an apron. I pulled one out and pulled the bib over my head.
It felt good. I almost felt like a grandmother, which I aspire to be someday – even though my children are mean and refuse to cooperate.
Instantly, I was focused and prepared to produce the world’s greatest Thanksgiving dinner.