Aprons

I read that students at the Culinary Institute of America are complaining about their chefs’ jackets. “They’re poorly designed,” they say. There are other things the students are unhappy with, but jackets are at the top of the list. Anyone who doesn’t cook might think the budding chefs are making too much fuss about something that’s supposed to have a boxy fit and comes in loose, looser and loosest. But since I spend most of my waking hours wearing an apron, I know how important it is to be able to move your arms when you’re cooking.     

I’m the kind of person who puts on an apron to mix yogurt. When I visit my daughter, I pack an apron, and when I have to help set the table at someone’s house, I ask for an apron. It’s not like I wear designer clothes that would be ruined by spots, it’s that I never know when I’ll be asked to give something a stir.     

When people know how much time you’re in the kitchen, they buy you aprons. I have two drawers full of them, most of which I never wear because they don’t fit right. A few of the ones I like are worn so thin, the strings are practically threads, but I can’t bring myself to throw them away.       

Which brings me to my ideal apron. First, the fabric has to be soft.  It doesn’t have to drape like haute couture, but it shouldn’t feel like it’s been marinated overnight in a bucket of starch. The strings have to be long enough to wrap around and tie in the front, and the apron should have pockets big enough to hold more than a folded Kleenex. I know it’s chic to wear aprons that go from waist to toes, but they make me look like a cross between a French waiter and a grill cook at a roadside diner. I need protection from the waist up. When a pot of spaghetti sauce is bubbling on the stove, it’s my chest that gets splashed, not my knees.       

You would think an apron — basically a flat piece of fabric with deep pockets and two long ties — would be easy enough to find, but trust me, it’s not. Which is why I’m thinking about taking up sewing.