The Apron Strings
Apron strings.
Controlling and relentless, irritating my neck with their cheap fabrics and frayed seams. They can be smothering. Tingling. Personally, I prefer to cook without one. It’s more freeing that way. Less itch. I don’t own an apron and I don’t want one, either. So, for one to have found its way into my home uninvited is most unsettling. Did I ask for it to appear? Did I wish it into existence? Not that I can recall—and my memory is as sharp as my wardrobe. It seems that the apron and its strings found its way in through a first kiss, a fast fuck, and a proposal of cohabitation.
We moved into my apartment, my partner and I, when we decided to take the next step in our relationship. Why do people say that, by the way? “Take the next step.” For us it was more like the next leap, the next jump, or the next sprint. The next long-distance marathon. Whatever it was, I wasn’t prepared. (As I would come to learn, I was playing a sport way out of my league and I loathe sports.) To exist in daily life with the man I love, that I was ready for. That I had been patiently longing for.
However, I wasn’t anticipating the extra baggage he would bring with him into our home.
I could deal with the superhero collectibles, the tedious percolator, and the stack of CDs that we don’t even have a player for; the mountain of dirty socks tucked under his side of the bed and the way he steals my pillows in the middle of the night. I could even deal with him putting back the carton of barista-style oat milk with nothing but a dribble left.
The invisible—but not non-existent—cardboard box he moved in with him contained, perhaps unsurprisingly, his mother. And of course, her apron.
She is a regular presence in our home. On the phone, by text, in emails. She is always there, ready to offer advice, prepared to lecture me about a recipe to ensure it is . . .