A Short Story: The Apron

In the beginning, she relished preparing family meals. Looking up old recipe books that she dug up from the recycling center. The original Betty Crocker. Her trusty Pepperidge Farm. The Bisquick cookbook. Pretending that she was stepping back in time as she made the dinners from her childhood. The meatloaf, chicken stew, roast beef or chicken, stuffed peppers, spaghetti and meatballs. The meals were a strange mix of her mother's Irish roots, 1950s Americana, Omega-rich or spicy ethnic. Chicken Cordon Bleu with American cheese and Virginia ham. Lamb curry with powder smuggled from Europe by her neighbor. The plastic baggy pungent and dangerous. Her mouth watered. Wild salmon seared in the black, well-seasoned cast-iron pan. Served with pickled beets and mashed sweet potatoes. Detox the family while oiling the brain. Throw some iron in for good measure. Still, she could never settle on one style of cooking. In the grocery store, she often felt a confusion close to schizophrenia before she decided on her evening meal. European-style shopping demanded daily trips to the grocery-store. Fresh daily. Time-consuming.

She stood in the kitchen wishing she could fit into the cute, vintage, lace aprons that she found at the flea market in Lynn. Her hips were made round after three children and post-partum depression. Still, she envied the cozy and safe life that satiated their hunger. The tiny aprons fit around their lovely hips. With room for a pretty bow in the back. She hung them prettily in the kitchen, looking fondly at them through the day. At least she made use of the collection of vintage table cloths. Linens with remarkably deep reds and blues. An eclectic jumble of plates and serving bowls from the thrift stores in town were hand-washed and towel-dried. The days smelled of baby oil and the damp sweat of expectation. He lifted the lid with apprehension.

Before him, she was a single mother. Working, going to graduate school, racing to pick up her daughter from day-care and running into huge debt. She encountered the stay-at-home Moms with their sweat-pants, pony-tails and wide asses at the school pick-ups and drop-offs. Their mini-vans filled with car-seats and fat children. She recalled the afternoon. She had the day off work and brought Maggie to a friend's sister's house. Here they were. In the flesh. In an actual social situation where she was included. The kids were playing in the large, safely fenced green back-yard. Mothers sat in resin chairs filled with self-satisfaction and family-pride. Out came the caffeine to the deck. Why would a simple insulated coffee container mystify? It's safer for the kids. Bringing it out from the house. They drank it with milk. Saving money on cream? Or watching their weight? Drinking the kids milk would be cheaper, she thought. But, it tasted funny. Weak and bitter at the same time. The coffee was cheap and made in an electric drip coffee maker. The result turned her stomach sour. Not like the coffee from Harvard Square. Her secret indulgence. Good, strong, rich and decadent. Coffee for the privileged and childless. Dreamily walking on cobblestone paths during lunch hour. Sipping from the cup of excellence. Their coffee was watery and exotic. This is what she wanted. The yard. The pregnant minivan. The clutch of friends. The freedom from the monthly bills.

Her favorite apron was a white, ruffled gauze. She found it in August. Revere Beach was beautiful that day. The stench of rotten seaweed and harbor sludge slowly clearing after the massive clean-up. Maggie peered up at her. Blue eyes and common sense. They drove to the flea market in the afternoon. Salt air washing away the dust from the linens piled high before her. Digging through the pile, she felt the gauze. Pulled it through. Maggie giggled in the umbrella stroller. A brown puppy ran loose. Her breath was slow and even as she handed over the dollar. The salt air was delicious.