Taste Test

I saw her through an open kitchen door. An auburn haired woman wearing a full apron. She moved purposefully between sink and stove. The smells wafting across the yard told me that bacon was part of the breakfast menu.

It was the apron that triggered my internal way-back machine. You just don't see those aprons very much any more. I remember my mother had an assortment of them. One was red and white checked, another was off-beige decorated with pinstriped lines. There was a Christmas apron and an apron with stencils of barbecue utensils. Some aprons had two pockets near the bottom hem; a couple had a third pocket at chest height.

The aprons are a permanent part of my childhood memories. I was always underfoot in the kitchen, drawing in lungfuls of mouthwatering smells daydreaming to hypnotic clatter of wooden spoons in mixing bowls.

My mother donning an apron was a signal that there was going to be some serious baking going on. Baking meant samples to taste and tasting meant I was there!