Jenna from the musical Waitress is, well, a waitress. She makes pies at Joe’s Pie Diner, and they taste really good. She has a love affair with her doctor after she becomes pregnant with her husband who is really mean.
tf3262
His apron stinks of dark coffee but nothing compared to the dark night.
Sweta Ojha
Apron. The art of cooking represented by one single piece of clothing. There’s not better feeling than getting it all dirty and away from its natural colour baking some goodies – cookies, biscuits, cake, pies, you name it. Everything that comes from a dirty apron tastes like rainbows and is the representation of happiness.
Ariadna
apron. great word. it protects you from fire and stuff its quite good for cooking you should use it more often yes you i know you dont use an apron well you should use them or else the apron monstser will kill you in your cooking dreams okay have fun nao bai even though i still have like. 10 seconds left…. FILLERFILLERFILLERFILLERFILLERFILLERFILLERFILLERFILLERFILLER
Nome
Her apron was grubby, covered in floury finger prints and unconfirmed splashes. As she pushed the plate towards me I instantly lost my appetite.
sleepylebeef
there she was in the shop behind the counter it was a normal summer spring on the year 1955
yet there she was with her red and yellow apron baking away. Red hair bright red lipstick white and blue polkadot dress withe her curly hair tied up and her dark green eyes smiling as she danced and sang to the music while baking in her bakery my life change right there and then
Rebecca
He was, as far as I could tell through the clouds of flour, handsome. It wasn’t in the way you usually thought of as handsome – no individual feature on his face could be called beautiful by itself – but somehow the sum of all the parts added up to much more. Perhaps it was the open honesty of his features, the straightforwardness of his clothes, the little blue tie behind his neck holding up his well-used apron, or the easy mess of his hair. He was nobody else but himself, and that was attractive as all hell.
In Bangladesh medical students have to wear apron while going to college. besides, it also helpful to recognize who are students and people usually respect them.
It brings up the image of a mother or grandmother. A traditional 1950s and earlier one.
But there are leather ones for carpenters, and smocked ones for pre-industrial … workers of some kind, not sure which, and … time’s up.
N Otany
He tied the apron around him, but he couldn’t quite get it to fit. He sat down at the kitchen table, balling the apron up and setting it in his lap. Of course, it wouldn’t fit him, it was made for his wife. He couldn’t feel good about wearing it, not that she was gone.
The Skeleton King wiped his bony hands on his apron. “Ribs are ready kids!” He yelled. All of the Skeleton Kids came running up the hill. They wished that they could still eat.
I have a thing for aprons. I wear one when I cook and it makes me feel fancy even if I’m in my old clothes. My aprons protect my good clothes from getting dirty when I cook and sometimes I wipe my hands. on it – yuck!
selenoir
She stood in the kitchen with her apron on, like always. Hip leaned against the closed oven door, one foot perched atop the other–a balancing act. This is how I will always remember my mother, with a wooden spoon in her hand and the smell of something simmering in the air. Every important conversation of my childhood took place in this scene, my mom cooking dinner and me sitting in a chair, legs folded under me and all crumpled up on myself while she listened to my confessions.
“What is this?”
Malik immediately threw down the offending picture of him in a frilly pink apron, drunkenly operating a pan over a stove.
Casey snickered as he snatched up the picture. “It’s you, dude!”
i put on my apron and hammer down
facing the flames
it’ll make me stronger, right?
i’m improving myself
but it hurts
it hurts so much
i want to go home
stranger
apron goes on your waste
lora
I watch my mother put on her apron, the heat from the oven causing me to start sweating. I stand up and it gets harder and harder to breathe as I walk over to my mother, wanting to hug her after all the hardships we’ve had. I hold her in my arms and it surges pain throughout my body, causing my eyes to widen as I shut my eyes. When I open them, I’m engulfed in flames with the last memories being of my mother in her flower apron.
What a nice apron, I vaguely think as I pass the woman in on the streets of New York City. I paused in my steps, allowing the people behind me to pass, and turn my head to peer back at the woman with an apron. She didn’t seem like a cook to me. She walked as if she were a queen and held her head high above. Glancing behind at the sign, I watch it turn green. Maybe I was stupid for doing this. Maybe I was crazy. But I know I didn’t really mind as I turned and chased after the raven haired green eyed woman wearing a flowery apron.
He stuck out his tongue in a playful manner. I narrowed my eyes at him. What a brat. He’d gotten flour all over me (even in my ears!) and all he could do was stick his tongue out at me. I wiped my hands across the front of my apron. I turned and walked into the kitchen, ignoring David as he leaned against the doorway.
The apron was heavy, digging into her neck – but really, what had she expected when the pockets were filled with rocks? She ran, knowing that if she stopped, she would be shot down. But that was really just routine. She had done this thousands of times.
The brown haired girl sighed, adjusting her apron before getting back to her work. She didn’t have time to dwell on such matters. The only time she had was for work. And working was for a damn good reason too.
Aprons are convenient. They keep your clothes clean when you’re cooking, which is great because god for-fucking-bid we shouldn’t look presentable while we serve dinner to our ungrateful, spoiled husbands and step-children. No, really, I do prefer to keep my clothes nice, I’m just a sour, bitter, horrid person and I can’t help myself. Sad, right?
Marlee
She wiped her hands down the front of her apron and sighed. There was a thin veil of flour covering her skin and she could feel it caked into the creases of her face. She let the warmth of the oven warm her mid-section as she stood in front of the stove and waited. Waited for her work to come to fruition.
Lauren
There was honey on her apron, and there was sugar in her hair. The pot glowed with sticky sweetness, and the smell was everywhere. I inhaled it through one nostril, and I found myself in bliss, and I swooped my little baker up, and we exchanged a kiss.
Belinda Roddie
She stood framed in the doorway, silently pursing her lips, her hands stuck deep into the pocket of her red apron. A curly strand of coppery hair fell in front of her face, which she didn’t bother brushing away. Finally she parted her lips and spoke with a quizzical expression, “What’s all this have to do with my Ellie?”
My grandma always had an apron around her waist. She never wore a full apron, only one that tied around her waist. She had three pockets in every one of them. And, she never bought them but made them by hand. This was where she wiped her hands after washing dishes and rinsing them in scalding hot water. This apron was used to dry my tears. This apron carried her lipstick to put on at a moments notice before my Pawpaw walked into the door after a long day at work. Every day she got a clean apron first thing in the morning and started preparing breakfast. The apron stayed on until after the dinner dishes were put away and she bathed and changed into her nightgown. When she was home, the apron was on. When she walked out of the front door, the apron came off. I still have a couple of her aprons. I always marvel at the fact that she faithfully wore this and was so proud to be a true housewife. She was proud to cook and clean and serve her husband and family.
Susette
apron, Apollon. Damit kann ich jetzt so gar nichts anfangen. Apron klingt wie ein Aperitif oder so. Warum wird Aperitif eigentlich hinten mit f geschrieben (ist das richtig?). Das Sieht vollkommen affektiert aus. Der größte Feind der Kreativität ist der gute Geschmack.
good for cook
chicken
It has a lot colors
It was rare that dad ever wore the apron. He did all the chores, but somehow felt that wearing the apron would be beneath him.
i am on break that is why i don’t have on my apron!!!!
I took of my apron because i had a long day of cooking for everyone
i use a apron when i cook!!!!
Better than APRONs
One piece plastic suit with feet
Your guard against spills
On hot movie sets
Newly painting rolling props
Intolerable.
This thing called APRON
Not easy to write about
Told to wear one once
The kitchen was the epicenter of everything during the holidays. Family, food, fun. This was the wonder of my childhood.
I like that teachers apron. It is white and black. Aprons are a very good way to keep your clothes protected, when you are painting.
I remember her on Sunday mornings. Cooking Sunday dinner with a smudge of flour on her face, wearing her paisley apron.
An apron is a protective cover you use when a messy action is carried out. most popular for cooking, it can also be used for by handymen and painters.
Jenna from the musical Waitress is, well, a waitress. She makes pies at Joe’s Pie Diner, and they taste really good. She has a love affair with her doctor after she becomes pregnant with her husband who is really mean.
His apron stinks of dark coffee but nothing compared to the dark night.
Apron. The art of cooking represented by one single piece of clothing. There’s not better feeling than getting it all dirty and away from its natural colour baking some goodies – cookies, biscuits, cake, pies, you name it. Everything that comes from a dirty apron tastes like rainbows and is the representation of happiness.
apron. great word. it protects you from fire and stuff its quite good for cooking you should use it more often yes you i know you dont use an apron well you should use them or else the apron monstser will kill you in your cooking dreams okay have fun nao bai even though i still have like. 10 seconds left…. FILLERFILLERFILLERFILLERFILLERFILLERFILLERFILLERFILLERFILLER
Her apron was grubby, covered in floury finger prints and unconfirmed splashes. As she pushed the plate towards me I instantly lost my appetite.
there she was in the shop behind the counter it was a normal summer spring on the year 1955
yet there she was with her red and yellow apron baking away. Red hair bright red lipstick white and blue polkadot dress withe her curly hair tied up and her dark green eyes smiling as she danced and sang to the music while baking in her bakery my life change right there and then
He was, as far as I could tell through the clouds of flour, handsome. It wasn’t in the way you usually thought of as handsome – no individual feature on his face could be called beautiful by itself – but somehow the sum of all the parts added up to much more. Perhaps it was the open honesty of his features, the straightforwardness of his clothes, the little blue tie behind his neck holding up his well-used apron, or the easy mess of his hair. He was nobody else but himself, and that was attractive as all hell.
In Bangladesh medical students have to wear apron while going to college. besides, it also helpful to recognize who are students and people usually respect them.
It brings up the image of a mother or grandmother. A traditional 1950s and earlier one.
But there are leather ones for carpenters, and smocked ones for pre-industrial … workers of some kind, not sure which, and … time’s up.
He tied the apron around him, but he couldn’t quite get it to fit. He sat down at the kitchen table, balling the apron up and setting it in his lap. Of course, it wouldn’t fit him, it was made for his wife. He couldn’t feel good about wearing it, not that she was gone.
The Skeleton King wiped his bony hands on his apron. “Ribs are ready kids!” He yelled. All of the Skeleton Kids came running up the hill. They wished that they could still eat.
I have a thing for aprons. I wear one when I cook and it makes me feel fancy even if I’m in my old clothes. My aprons protect my good clothes from getting dirty when I cook and sometimes I wipe my hands. on it – yuck!
She stood in the kitchen with her apron on, like always. Hip leaned against the closed oven door, one foot perched atop the other–a balancing act. This is how I will always remember my mother, with a wooden spoon in her hand and the smell of something simmering in the air. Every important conversation of my childhood took place in this scene, my mom cooking dinner and me sitting in a chair, legs folded under me and all crumpled up on myself while she listened to my confessions.
There she stood, covered head to toe in flour and sugar. The apron she had been wearing had once been a floral pink, but now was pure white.
“What is this?”
Malik immediately threw down the offending picture of him in a frilly pink apron, drunkenly operating a pan over a stove.
Casey snickered as he snatched up the picture. “It’s you, dude!”
i put on my apron and hammer down
facing the flames
it’ll make me stronger, right?
i’m improving myself
but it hurts
it hurts so much
i want to go home
apron goes on your waste
I watch my mother put on her apron, the heat from the oven causing me to start sweating. I stand up and it gets harder and harder to breathe as I walk over to my mother, wanting to hug her after all the hardships we’ve had. I hold her in my arms and it surges pain throughout my body, causing my eyes to widen as I shut my eyes. When I open them, I’m engulfed in flames with the last memories being of my mother in her flower apron.
the apron flutters
i watch it glide slowly
how dull, the color
– A haiku
What a nice apron, I vaguely think as I pass the woman in on the streets of New York City. I paused in my steps, allowing the people behind me to pass, and turn my head to peer back at the woman with an apron. She didn’t seem like a cook to me. She walked as if she were a queen and held her head high above. Glancing behind at the sign, I watch it turn green. Maybe I was stupid for doing this. Maybe I was crazy. But I know I didn’t really mind as I turned and chased after the raven haired green eyed woman wearing a flowery apron.
He stuck out his tongue in a playful manner. I narrowed my eyes at him. What a brat. He’d gotten flour all over me (even in my ears!) and all he could do was stick his tongue out at me. I wiped my hands across the front of my apron. I turned and walked into the kitchen, ignoring David as he leaned against the doorway.
The apron was heavy, digging into her neck – but really, what had she expected when the pockets were filled with rocks? She ran, knowing that if she stopped, she would be shot down. But that was really just routine. She had done this thousands of times.
The brown haired girl sighed, adjusting her apron before getting back to her work. She didn’t have time to dwell on such matters. The only time she had was for work. And working was for a damn good reason too.
Aprons are convenient. They keep your clothes clean when you’re cooking, which is great because god for-fucking-bid we shouldn’t look presentable while we serve dinner to our ungrateful, spoiled husbands and step-children. No, really, I do prefer to keep my clothes nice, I’m just a sour, bitter, horrid person and I can’t help myself. Sad, right?
She wiped her hands down the front of her apron and sighed. There was a thin veil of flour covering her skin and she could feel it caked into the creases of her face. She let the warmth of the oven warm her mid-section as she stood in front of the stove and waited. Waited for her work to come to fruition.
There was honey on her apron, and there was sugar in her hair. The pot glowed with sticky sweetness, and the smell was everywhere. I inhaled it through one nostril, and I found myself in bliss, and I swooped my little baker up, and we exchanged a kiss.
She stood framed in the doorway, silently pursing her lips, her hands stuck deep into the pocket of her red apron. A curly strand of coppery hair fell in front of her face, which she didn’t bother brushing away. Finally she parted her lips and spoke with a quizzical expression, “What’s all this have to do with my Ellie?”
My grandma always had an apron around her waist. She never wore a full apron, only one that tied around her waist. She had three pockets in every one of them. And, she never bought them but made them by hand. This was where she wiped her hands after washing dishes and rinsing them in scalding hot water. This apron was used to dry my tears. This apron carried her lipstick to put on at a moments notice before my Pawpaw walked into the door after a long day at work. Every day she got a clean apron first thing in the morning and started preparing breakfast. The apron stayed on until after the dinner dishes were put away and she bathed and changed into her nightgown. When she was home, the apron was on. When she walked out of the front door, the apron came off. I still have a couple of her aprons. I always marvel at the fact that she faithfully wore this and was so proud to be a true housewife. She was proud to cook and clean and serve her husband and family.
apron, Apollon. Damit kann ich jetzt so gar nichts anfangen. Apron klingt wie ein Aperitif oder so. Warum wird Aperitif eigentlich hinten mit f geschrieben (ist das richtig?). Das Sieht vollkommen affektiert aus. Der größte Feind der Kreativität ist der gute Geschmack.