I’m a klutz; if I enter a room containing tomato sauce, at least one splash invariably finds its way onto my shirt: This leads to lots of laundry detergent purchases and a sense of growing desperation about my wardrobe. But for some reason, I’m not in the habit of wearing an apron. Although I try to change into ratty "house clothes" before doing the dishes, adding an extra, prophylactic layer to my outfit before cooking rarely crosses my mind.
This isn’t because I’m rebelling against the patriarchy by rejecting apron strings as a symbol of oppression. After all, my husband works in a kitchen, and it’s not unusual to see him sporting a man apron "mapron?" as he whips up a meal. More likely my lack of interest has been due to the tangle of tacky tie-ons, none of which I purchased for myself, clogging up my dishcloth drawer.
They include: 1) A serious , and seriously un-sexy, canvas deal printed with pots and pans. 2) A bright-green, holiday version complete with a Santa head and a reindeer or two, perfect for making X-mas cookies with little ones, but I never bake and don’t have kids. 3) A sleek black number marred by the presence of a garish, yellow-and-green slogan for a canola-oil marketing organization, a gift for judging a fried cooking contest at the 2007 Champlain Valley Fair.
Over the last few days, as I scanned the thousands of hip, funky and fun aprons available on crafty websites, I started to get excited about the workhorses of the clothing world. Could the old, tomato-sauce-stained shirts in my closet be cut up and repurposed as handmade aprons to protect my newer clothing?
I knew exactly where to go to turn my apron dreams into reality. At The Bobbin Sew Bar and Craft Lounge on Burlington’s North Winooski Avenue, owners Gyllian Svenson and Rachel Hooper occasionally teach apron-making classes, but for $25 an hour, they’ll serve up DIY skills in a private lesson.
When I arrived, Svenson had a colorful collection of printed and plain fabrics laid out on the table and ready for the plucking (cloth was included in the lesson’s price) but when I identified my favorite pattern, she pointed out a problem: There was just enough of the good stuff for a sash and pockets. "That’s part of the deal working with reclaimed fabric," she explains. We managed to match the bold purples, blues and teals with a handful of complementary cloths, and it was time to sew.
Well, almost. First we needed to create a pattern. Armed with a measuring tape, some brown paper and a pair of scissors, Svenson created a mock-up of the bodice, with a sweetheart neckline and a colorful waistband; an original design, of course. The skirt was so simple we didn’t even need to lay it out. With a few snips and some ironing, the pieces (including a special pocket for my iPhone) were ready for assembly.
After three chatty hours, I walked out the door with a burnished sense of confidence in my sewing abilities and a purple, blue and green confection pretty enough to wear in public.
In fact, I like my jewel-toned, handmade apron so much that I’m loath to splash it with olive oil or drizzle it with viscous, golden egg yolk. You know what, though? That canvas muumuu in my kitchen drawer would fit right over it.
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