Carolyn
J. Rose
Adults,
especially those of the grandparent variety, did a lot of covering up when I
was a kid.
And
I’m not talking about the way they tap-danced around those birds-and-bees
topics.
I’m
talking about doilies, antimacassars, tablecloths, placemats, and aprons
Except
for brief moments after a meal while the old cloth was being exchanged for a
fresh one, I never saw a bare table at my grandmother’s house. Except for when
cleaning and freshening was going on, I never saw a chair arm in her living
room without a circle of lace upon it.
And except for when she was headed for
church or a party, I never saw her without an apron.
She
had a lot of aprons. Maybe a dozen. Maybe more. Some she made for
herself. Others were gifts. Some tied around the waist. Others were of the
pinafore variety, often with gathers and ruffles. Some were everyday aprons
with simple patterns. Others were for holidays and special dinners. They had
fancy braid or bows or rickrack. They went on when the messy part of cooking
was complete and serving dishes were ferried to the table.
When,
at four years of age—after washing my hands with a bar of brown soap the size
of a paperback novel—I was trusted with the task of creaming butter and sugar
with a wooden spoon, I did it standing on a chair and swaddled in an apron
wrapped twice around my chest.
For
years I thought aprons were more critical to the meal-preparation process than
pots, pans, utensils, ingredients, a stove, or a refrigerator.
Then
I graduated from college and struck out on my own. I had a car, a dog, a
collection of T-shirts and blue jeans, a battered record player, a few dozen
albums, and not a single apron. I didn’t have a single recipe, either. But
somehow, through a process of trial and error—sometimes major error—I cobbled
together meals.
As
for those aprons my grandmother passed along, well, I hung onto to them for
years. Not for culinary reasons, but for sentimental ones.
