The apron, the donning of it, was my statement of intention; the kitchen was mine and in time there would be my kind of every-day banquet.
Mama's apron was a staple of my childhood, patterned with all things British, from teapots to the palace guards. When I think of it the aromas of her fresh baking come flooding in to my brain, my heart leaps and there is that moment of serenity. I see her in that apron, arms wide, a hug just a few steps away.
Aprons hang in the cool November air, caught between a sun that retains some vestiges of warmth and a wind cold enough to steal it away. Each one flutters, flag like in the breeze, and it is the sight of them that welcomes Dawn to the market each Sunday morning. Mrs Tamlin has out done herself again, she must have made the trek to the big city fabric store. Each colour is more flamboyant than the last, more edible for the eyes.
An apron lies over the chair, always a good sign. Ted smirks, recalling the time he gave it, an impulse buy the market. Cleo looked just like he'd taken away the washing machine and handed her an old fashioned wash board. That was so long ago, now the bright blue had faded to the colour of the jeans she always wore and the material had that beaten look things get when they've had too many spins in the machine. It hadn't been long before she'd come home with an apron for him to, awesome in its hideousness...
Autumn stopped, her eyes on a rack of tiny aprons. "Look, cute kid's aprons! Aren't they adorable, can't you just see Jen's kids in them?" Mike fingered the fabric, not to check their quality but to buy time while he thought of how to get out of a purchase. Autumn had about a million friends and she saw something cute for someone in every store.
The apron is more food than fabric. He wears it like a battle scar, proudly defiant. Somewhere beneath the mass of batter smears is the reindeer pattern of a christmas gift and the tethers show errant loose thread as they are torn away from the fabric.
Some folks collect stamps, others coins, but Kashmir had a thing for aprons. Each one to her wasn't simply fabric with tethers, it was a call to arms. Every apron had a specific use, a certain kind of baking or dinner she associated with it. To walk in and see her apron was all any member of the family needed to know about dinner; that clue along with the aromas permeating the house was proof enough.
Granny's eyes fixed upon a spot on Lucy's apron, her scowl deepening as much as the creases on her brow. Even work clothes were to be clean if Granny was expected to be a guest - Ed always said his mother had something of a "queen complex." Lucy made to hide the spot but her mother was right on it. "Beautiful apron, isn't it, Granny? Lucy made it herself on the sewing machine." Together they waited a couple of seconds in vain for the old girl to realize her error, but when instead she bristled and pushed her shoulders back Mom steered Lucy to the kitchen with a smile that was more of a grimace.
Tilly is in the kitchen, flour on her cheek and socks. Now that she's almost ten she moves about the kitchen with a faux-adult air, masking where she is unsure by calling me, her "assistant" to do something for her. She's adorable, but then I'm bias. I watch her in that apron she made in an art class last year. They got blank aprons and fabric paint, so of course hers is a riot of flowers with her cat painted in the middle - Mr Kitty. Well, it's just his face really looking for all the world like the cheshire cat from Alice in Wonderland. She has the tabs wrapped right around her back and tied at the front where she could see the knot as she tied it. The vibrant hues are dusted with flour and smudged with cocoa, smeared with a little butter. It's a work of art on a work of art. Her face is happy but serious, when it comes to getting her brownies right it's no laughing matter.
Upon the spotless counter lies an apron that is anything but. Once a jolly array of colours on a cream background, arranged checkerboard fashion and likely garish to the eye. It is splattered with every manner of stains from everything I love to eat. There are remnants of bolognese, of pickled beetroot and lentil dahl. It's not that it isn't clean, it's just that these things leave stains, beautiful, like memories soaked into the fabric.