My mom had a special apron she wore when she spanked us. It had a lot of pockets that fit a variety of cooking utensils. You knew you were in trouble when she pulled out the spatula, the metal one with lots of holes in it. Things were going to be fine if it was the mini whisk.
I never owned an apron but if I did it would probably be the cleanest apron you’ve ever seen. I don’t cook, don’t like to cook and don’t want to learn to cook OR learn to like it! I’m great at throwing a few things in a bowl or on a piece of bread and calling it a meal.
When we used to bake with my grandmother, we’d all wear flowered yellow aprons and cover them in flower and sugar. Divine aromas would waft through the kitchen and we’d rush to clean all the pots and pans so we could taste our cakes.
Robin
She wore the apron tied behind her like a uniform. “Alrighty then. BAKING.” This was normal. This was her, the girl who took each task as a war to safe her home country.
Apron strings wrapped and knotted, and why did they mean so much? There were just strings, cords, pieces of old rag tied and wrapped and twisted into something almost like rope that we all called “string” because what else could we call it? They were old and ugly and hardly worth the sentiment we gave it. But they were all that was left of that woman we once called mother. Was that why?
Lucas’ mother bustled about the kitchen, a blur of green plaid apron and fiery curls. She listed off chores and a number of other things as she washed the dishes but Lucas only stared at her with unyielding contempt. This woman was pretending to be his mother and it tore him apart to watch her use his mother’s face and voice as if they were her own.
the doctor put on the apron..gave an assuring nod….but i was never afraid of anything..ever…was just worried about my parents outside…he injected me and then I dont remember anything till i woke up..the pain was excruciating…worse than those the night before…but I knew things will be fine…
The apron was splattered and ruined with paint, crumpled and neglected. But nevertheless I didn’t care, flinging the darts into the paint-filled balloons. I laughed by his side as we made the terrible, free art together. And I looked into his eyes, they were just as wild as the colors upon the wall.
This reminds me of my college days…gone are the days…but memories stay…the lab…the new friends…new crushes…during practical periods…we used to put on the apron and rush to the lab..there was the excitement of doing new experiments…being successful over peers…it was not the dirty competition of professional world…but just sake of a momentary win..and then helping others…the fun of gossiping…spilling water on the aprons and running around the lab to save yourself….gone are the days…
I tied on my apron, ready to go to work. First I gathered the ingredients. Funny little sprinkles, shaped like frogs, green food dye, chocolate chunks, creme de menthe, and flour….
that apron that fits me so well!!!!!! i love it i cook with it it is always with me. thats apron thats purple that apron that saves me from all the powder in the kitchen. wow aprons are so great….go aprons!!!!
Mine is frilly, spring green and yellow. The only pocket is shaped like a cupcake. It brightens my day every time I bake, and I’ve considered wearing it out of the house. It’s sunny and springlike, and adds additional flair to any cake.
The apron she was wearing was white, it was usually stained within five minutes of being in the kitchen making food for her kids and her husband. That was her duty after all, being both mother and wife. And she wouldn’t have changed her situation for anything. She was happy.
Ciel
tattooed with cake batter and sprinkles,
white smear marks of flour like a warrior.
The smell fills the air,
I am dressed like the princess of bakes,
Kiss the cook,
I will find more ways
to perfect
the simpliest chocolate chip cookie.
She smiles sweetly as she sweeps her hair across her shoulders and carefully ties the apron around her. Her eyes twinkle as she bends towards the small girl, rays of summer sunshine streaming through the open window.
My initial thought causes me to cringe:
The fact that aprons can be instantly associated with women in a kitchen, doing house work, whatever. It’s twisted. It’s disturbing. It’s just plain awful…
The apron laid across the kitchen table. An entire day of cooking had gone to waste but she didn’t mind. She’d missed her husband while he was gone and he was home; that was all that mattered. She welcomed his gentle touch.
Some girls’ dreams were to wear an apron and bake a cake for their husband. Rose was different. She wanted adventure. She wanted to fly, to be free. And she knew one thing for sure, getting a husband, having an army of kids to look after and baking cakes didn’t sound really adventurous
She only ever wore an apron. One of the perks of never leaving one’s house is that you can walk around naked all day every day, except when making bacon, we wouldn’t want any oil popping up and scarring those beautiful breasts, so she wore an apron.
mitchblummer
And apron brushed her cheek. Dazed, she raised her head until she could glean where in wide world she could be, and she saw the red and yellow checkered apron brushing against her nose as she looked up.
Amanda
The kitchen is commonly accosiated as the place for the women, yet I disagree with that acossiation. Cooking is very much my thing, as is football and many other ‘manly’ things, along with some other ‘feminine’ things. So maybe you should shut up with your stereotype
Josie
An apron. Nothing underneath. Would be very chilly. Hair standing. Goose bumping.
Ian
Spencer looks down when he feels a tug on his apron. Layla is standing there beaming up at him with big blue eyes. She smiles wide and bright with her perfect teeth. “Can I cook with you, Daddy?” She asks. Spencer nods and lifts her to sit next to him on the counter where he’s cooking their dinner. His wife is in the living room with their son. She’s working and he’s playing quietly.
The apron was covered in stains but she liked it that way. Some cooks changed into a crisp, clean apron after they were done in the kitchen, but that wasn’t her style. She wanted the world to see the work she put into her baking. Getting a little dirty now and then was worth it.
This is what I tie around myself to contain that firm emotion of “I am not a home maker.” I can’t let it spill into my cookies or cupcakes because then they won’t taste any good at all. I keep my feminist (human equalitist) ideals out of this and proceed with caution, mixing like this really is the biggest of my worries. They taste the best this way, you see? That’s Martha Stewart’s trick.
She tugged her hands sharply, and the fabric pulled at the front of her waist. The skin parted in smooth rolls underneath it, and she smile down at the little boy, and he ran towards the softness of her, and the smell of flour that wafted up from her skin.
Amai
Her apron clung to her womanly curves, the food in the oven almost burning because she was so lost in thought, her lip caught between her teeth to the point of almost puncturing skin. She sighed, sad that she’d never have a REAL man, only cooking dinner for one tonight, and every night.
My apron is on and I am ready to cook, but what should I cook.I like this and I like that but I don’t know how to make this or that. Hmm what should I do? Please help me you are the pro.
White dust settled down on the florid floral print of my grandmothers old apron. Perfect handprints dusted up and down the surface, sugar, cocoa, and, of course, flour. The frazzled ties in the back tanged around my finger
The apron was hanging on the rack beside the front door. He found this to be a bit…off for his wife always slipped it on the moment that she came home from work.
The apron she wore was almost completely clean. She was generally a very neat, very tidy, very puttogether person — though not painstakingly so. The apron was clear white, with a few smudges around the edges, due to years of baking cookies with her children and eventual grandchildren.
Amanda
I walked into the kitchen and saw my father standing in a flowery apron with a spatula in hand over a sizzling pan on the stove. I didn’t understand where a 300 pound Hawaiian man found such a flower apron–one with pastel colors swirled around plumeria flowers. I walked back out without a word from him or myself.
i have quite the collection of aprons. i barely usehtem, but i think that one day when i am old and married i will wear them. everyday. that way i will cook things for my husband just to make him happy. ahhh my husband. i dont know who jhe will be, or what he will look like, all i know is that we will be madly madly in love. we will laugh at things that arent funny, we will alwaus have something to talk about. he will be like no one ive ever met before and ill be the same to him. so whatever. i dont care if these shmucks i know now are idiots. someday ill find true love
anonymous
The apron caught fire as soon as the stove was turned on. I had no time to think but luckily the man beside me kept his calm. He pulled me over to the sink and put out the flames. My everyday hero, my husband!
I tied the checkered apron around my waist as the sweet aroma of banana bread tickled my nose. Andrew sat by the fire, grunting and cheering occasionally at the nail-biter football game on the television. The fire crackled and roared in the fireplace, filling the room with a mixture of ecstatic cries, scrumptious banana bread, and charred oak.
it seems so old school to actually cook with an apron on but at the same time it makes so much sense. i want nothing more than to rock an apron while whipping up an awesome dinner, but i wont because i’m to stuck in it being an old fashioned house wife trend.
Brittany Hodges
If there’s an apron in the kitchen, I’d like you to wear it. Sometimes the egg, blackberries, and chocolate frosting stain the clothes. The apron hangs in the closet – the only soiled piece of myself I own.
My mom had a special apron she wore when she spanked us. It had a lot of pockets that fit a variety of cooking utensils. You knew you were in trouble when she pulled out the spatula, the metal one with lots of holes in it. Things were going to be fine if it was the mini whisk.
I never owned an apron but if I did it would probably be the cleanest apron you’ve ever seen. I don’t cook, don’t like to cook and don’t want to learn to cook OR learn to like it! I’m great at throwing a few things in a bowl or on a piece of bread and calling it a meal.
When we used to bake with my grandmother, we’d all wear flowered yellow aprons and cover them in flower and sugar. Divine aromas would waft through the kitchen and we’d rush to clean all the pots and pans so we could taste our cakes.
She wore the apron tied behind her like a uniform. “Alrighty then. BAKING.” This was normal. This was her, the girl who took each task as a war to safe her home country.
Apron strings wrapped and knotted, and why did they mean so much? There were just strings, cords, pieces of old rag tied and wrapped and twisted into something almost like rope that we all called “string” because what else could we call it? They were old and ugly and hardly worth the sentiment we gave it. But they were all that was left of that woman we once called mother. Was that why?
Lucas’ mother bustled about the kitchen, a blur of green plaid apron and fiery curls. She listed off chores and a number of other things as she washed the dishes but Lucas only stared at her with unyielding contempt. This woman was pretending to be his mother and it tore him apart to watch her use his mother’s face and voice as if they were her own.
the doctor put on the apron..gave an assuring nod….but i was never afraid of anything..ever…was just worried about my parents outside…he injected me and then I dont remember anything till i woke up..the pain was excruciating…worse than those the night before…but I knew things will be fine…
The apron was splattered and ruined with paint, crumpled and neglected. But nevertheless I didn’t care, flinging the darts into the paint-filled balloons. I laughed by his side as we made the terrible, free art together. And I looked into his eyes, they were just as wild as the colors upon the wall.
This reminds me of my college days…gone are the days…but memories stay…the lab…the new friends…new crushes…during practical periods…we used to put on the apron and rush to the lab..there was the excitement of doing new experiments…being successful over peers…it was not the dirty competition of professional world…but just sake of a momentary win..and then helping others…the fun of gossiping…spilling water on the aprons and running around the lab to save yourself….gone are the days…
I tied on my apron, ready to go to work. First I gathered the ingredients. Funny little sprinkles, shaped like frogs, green food dye, chocolate chunks, creme de menthe, and flour….
that apron that fits me so well!!!!!! i love it i cook with it it is always with me. thats apron thats purple that apron that saves me from all the powder in the kitchen. wow aprons are so great….go aprons!!!!
Mine is frilly, spring green and yellow. The only pocket is shaped like a cupcake. It brightens my day every time I bake, and I’ve considered wearing it out of the house. It’s sunny and springlike, and adds additional flair to any cake.
The apron she was wearing was white, it was usually stained within five minutes of being in the kitchen making food for her kids and her husband. That was her duty after all, being both mother and wife. And she wouldn’t have changed her situation for anything. She was happy.
tattooed with cake batter and sprinkles,
white smear marks of flour like a warrior.
The smell fills the air,
I am dressed like the princess of bakes,
Kiss the cook,
I will find more ways
to perfect
the simpliest chocolate chip cookie.
She threw the apron onto the counter. “Ready?”
I shook my head rapidly. “Don’t. Please. Don’t.”
“Why not? I know that you don’t want me to, but… I need it.”
Tears welled up in my eyes. “No! Please, just… don’t!”
She took a knife from the drawer and looked at me with a grimace. “Too bad.”
“Please,” I pleaded, the tears now flowing steadily down my face. “Please,” I said again, although she was already walking past me.
“You don’t have to watch if you don’t want.”
“Stop!” I called to her, but she was up the stairs already.
Well, at least she told me.
She smiles sweetly as she sweeps her hair across her shoulders and carefully ties the apron around her. Her eyes twinkle as she bends towards the small girl, rays of summer sunshine streaming through the open window.
My initial thought causes me to cringe:
The fact that aprons can be instantly associated with women in a kitchen, doing house work, whatever. It’s twisted. It’s disturbing. It’s just plain awful…
The apron laid across the kitchen table. An entire day of cooking had gone to waste but she didn’t mind. She’d missed her husband while he was gone and he was home; that was all that mattered. She welcomed his gentle touch.
Some girls’ dreams were to wear an apron and bake a cake for their husband. Rose was different. She wanted adventure. She wanted to fly, to be free. And she knew one thing for sure, getting a husband, having an army of kids to look after and baking cakes didn’t sound really adventurous
The iron rested on the stone apron that ringed the fireplace. It glowed menacingly orange.
Jensen just stared at it, not listening to the background voices murmuring in the vacuous barn.
She only ever wore an apron. One of the perks of never leaving one’s house is that you can walk around naked all day every day, except when making bacon, we wouldn’t want any oil popping up and scarring those beautiful breasts, so she wore an apron.
And apron brushed her cheek. Dazed, she raised her head until she could glean where in wide world she could be, and she saw the red and yellow checkered apron brushing against her nose as she looked up.
The kitchen is commonly accosiated as the place for the women, yet I disagree with that acossiation. Cooking is very much my thing, as is football and many other ‘manly’ things, along with some other ‘feminine’ things. So maybe you should shut up with your stereotype
An apron. Nothing underneath. Would be very chilly. Hair standing. Goose bumping.
Spencer looks down when he feels a tug on his apron. Layla is standing there beaming up at him with big blue eyes. She smiles wide and bright with her perfect teeth. “Can I cook with you, Daddy?” She asks. Spencer nods and lifts her to sit next to him on the counter where he’s cooking their dinner. His wife is in the living room with their son. She’s working and he’s playing quietly.
Flowers. Bright yellow. Protects the immaculate white. Nothing new really. Except that it’s worn by a guy.
The apron was covered in stains but she liked it that way. Some cooks changed into a crisp, clean apron after they were done in the kitchen, but that wasn’t her style. She wanted the world to see the work she put into her baking. Getting a little dirty now and then was worth it.
This is what I tie around myself to contain that firm emotion of “I am not a home maker.” I can’t let it spill into my cookies or cupcakes because then they won’t taste any good at all. I keep my feminist (human equalitist) ideals out of this and proceed with caution, mixing like this really is the biggest of my worries. They taste the best this way, you see? That’s Martha Stewart’s trick.
She tugged her hands sharply, and the fabric pulled at the front of her waist. The skin parted in smooth rolls underneath it, and she smile down at the little boy, and he ran towards the softness of her, and the smell of flour that wafted up from her skin.
Her apron clung to her womanly curves, the food in the oven almost burning because she was so lost in thought, her lip caught between her teeth to the point of almost puncturing skin. She sighed, sad that she’d never have a REAL man, only cooking dinner for one tonight, and every night.
My apron is on and I am ready to cook, but what should I cook.I like this and I like that but I don’t know how to make this or that. Hmm what should I do? Please help me you are the pro.
White dust settled down on the florid floral print of my grandmothers old apron. Perfect handprints dusted up and down the surface, sugar, cocoa, and, of course, flour. The frazzled ties in the back tanged around my finger
The apron was hanging on the rack beside the front door. He found this to be a bit…off for his wife always slipped it on the moment that she came home from work.
The apron she wore was almost completely clean. She was generally a very neat, very tidy, very puttogether person — though not painstakingly so. The apron was clear white, with a few smudges around the edges, due to years of baking cookies with her children and eventual grandchildren.
I walked into the kitchen and saw my father standing in a flowery apron with a spatula in hand over a sizzling pan on the stove. I didn’t understand where a 300 pound Hawaiian man found such a flower apron–one with pastel colors swirled around plumeria flowers. I walked back out without a word from him or myself.
i have quite the collection of aprons. i barely usehtem, but i think that one day when i am old and married i will wear them. everyday. that way i will cook things for my husband just to make him happy. ahhh my husband. i dont know who jhe will be, or what he will look like, all i know is that we will be madly madly in love. we will laugh at things that arent funny, we will alwaus have something to talk about. he will be like no one ive ever met before and ill be the same to him. so whatever. i dont care if these shmucks i know now are idiots. someday ill find true love
The apron caught fire as soon as the stove was turned on. I had no time to think but luckily the man beside me kept his calm. He pulled me over to the sink and put out the flames. My everyday hero, my husband!
I tied the checkered apron around my waist as the sweet aroma of banana bread tickled my nose. Andrew sat by the fire, grunting and cheering occasionally at the nail-biter football game on the television. The fire crackled and roared in the fireplace, filling the room with a mixture of ecstatic cries, scrumptious banana bread, and charred oak.
it seems so old school to actually cook with an apron on but at the same time it makes so much sense. i want nothing more than to rock an apron while whipping up an awesome dinner, but i wont because i’m to stuck in it being an old fashioned house wife trend.
If there’s an apron in the kitchen, I’d like you to wear it. Sometimes the egg, blackberries, and chocolate frosting stain the clothes. The apron hangs in the closet – the only soiled piece of myself I own.