Last night as I stood in the kitchen baking these (which are just as delicious and sinful as the picture implies), I realized that I was the epitome of a 1950’s housewife: barefoot, baking, wearing an apron. I really should have snapped a picture for the online dating profile I
will never am supposed to create (I made a pact with the devil a friend). And as I licked the spoon, I wondered how I could have avoided a love affair with apons for so long.
Apart from their overt femininity, aprons just make sense. And they’re cute. Just putting one on makes me feel domestic and productive. Heck, there is even a publication about them. Yep, apronology which, despite being a Somerset studio fan, I’d never seen on newsstands before.
As a girl, I recall my great-grandmother bustling about her Idaho farmhouse in an apron, tucking little tools and candy and hankies in its pockets. Even when the shelling of peas and backing of pies was long finished, granny still wore that apron about. Back then I didn’t “get” it, but I sure do now, Granny.