It is hung somewhere around the kitchen. It is no longer new, and almost like it is going to break soon. But the tiny bit of imperfections are the stories of the dishes that it witnessed; bitter, sweet, salty, and with all tastes of the world.
The apron is too small for me now, denim with my name in puffy paint, from when I stood on a chair to beat the dough into submission, marveling at the yellow goo pouring from white shells cracked by my mother’s hand.
I saw acorn. Acorn in a pocket. A squirrel in the kitchen. What would they make? Or maybe sotre an acorn under their chef’s hat. They can nibble on it when they are thinking, puzzling over their next meal. Do they need to wash their hands?
P
the apron was old, the pristine white gone to dingy grey. it was worn in spots with a small tear on one end where it had been caught on a hook while she was cooking. but oh, how she had smiled that day.
It is hung somewhere around the kitchen. It is no longer new, and almost like it is going to break soon. But the tiny bit of imperfections are the stories of the dishes that it witnessed; bitter, sweet, salty, and with all tastes of the world.
The apron is too small for me now, denim with my name in puffy paint, from when I stood on a chair to beat the dough into submission, marveling at the yellow goo pouring from white shells cracked by my mother’s hand.
I saw acorn. Acorn in a pocket. A squirrel in the kitchen. What would they make? Or maybe sotre an acorn under their chef’s hat. They can nibble on it when they are thinking, puzzling over their next meal. Do they need to wash their hands?
the apron was old, the pristine white gone to dingy grey. it was worn in spots with a small tear on one end where it had been caught on a hook while she was cooking. but oh, how she had smiled that day.