Actually, let me qualify that statement. I do love to bake, but I don't love to wear an apron; I only wear one because if I didn't, every article of clothing I own would be stained beyond redemption by this point. Although I consider myself a fairly neat person, I am a fairly messy cook. I tend to spill things, tip things over, and splatter myself with grease. I am truly impressed by anyone who can cook without an apron and not end up wearing half the ingredients on her shirt.
My second son is quite amused by the whole apron thing, which I don't understand. He says I'm always wearing one--even when I sleep! Not true. I definitely take it off at bedtime. But I do spend more time sporting an apron than most gals, probably; because even standing at the sink washing dishes without one is bad news for my clothes, so pretty much any time I set foot in my kitchen, I strap one on. Son #2 and his girlfriend came to our house for dinner recently, and when she offered to make the salad, he asked me to get her an apron first. Gullible me--I thought she'd requested it. I thought she was a fellow apron fanatic. I realize now that he just made her wear it for his own amusement.
Son, what's so funny about an apron? Heck, back in the day, most women wore aprons when they were working in the kitchen. June Cleaver, for instance, wouldn't have dreamed of cooking without one. Of course, June wore a dress, high heels, and pearls when she was making dinner for Ward, Wally, and the Beave, so she had a fancy outfit to protect. But hey, I don't want to have butter stains on my jeans and polo shirts any more than June wanted them on her dresses.
I need my trusty apron. It's always got my back (make that my front). I love it and I don't care who knows it! So here's a little ode to my apron, a haiku--because that's the quickest and easiest kind of poetry there is, and I have to wrap this up so that I can go and ice a Bundt cake.
I love my apron--
with big pockets, tied in back.
I wear it always.
(But not when I'm in bed!)