Let me paint you a picture. We live on a small private road that ends in something akin to a cul-de-sac. Maybe a dead end is more accurate. Our house is the second house as you enter on the street, so all those that live beyond towards the dead end drive by our house. A non-eventful cow pasture is on the other side of the street. Naturally, then, as people drive by, they look at our house. Invariably, if I am outside, I am wearing my apron. I have either finished kitchen clean-up and am taking out the trash or I’m on our porch, visible to the street, barbequing something on our gas grill. My neighbors must think that my apron is permanently attached. In my paranoid ideation, they are also thinking that I am an oppressed homemaker locked in the kitchen. I want to send them all a copy of my apron manifesto:
I solemnly declare that I love to cook because it’s creative, it provides more nutritious, less expensive meals for my family and it provides a gathering each night for family time and discussion. Because I cook, I make a mess, and while cleaning up this mess, an apron helps me avoid that tell-tale dishwashing mark on my pants, where my stomach is. It also provides pockets for me to put loose papers or the phone. It is my uniform that reminds others and myself that I am working and cannot stop and play the Wii (well, not often anyway.)
I’ll leave off my last reason, which is of course that I leave on the apron while I’m eating, too, to avoid spills/stains on my clothes. It’s less obtuse than sticking a napkin in my collar a la ranch-hand style.
Here’s a photo of my new beloved friend in the kitchen, a Christmas gift from my sister. It’s here to stay, food stains and all. 
I invite any and all who read this to email me photos of their aprons, which I will post in subsequent postings.
