Apron Strings Quotes

Cooking is 80 percent confidence, a skill best acquired starting from when the apron strings wrap around you twice.

As people are retracting into their snail shell's security of “stay home, stay safe,” distrust has become the top concern on the list. A climate of suspicion or denunciation is taking hold, gradually destroying the strings of sociability. In the aftermath, every singular person must find out how to reweave the ties of trust and confidence in their community's social tissue. ("What do they think behind their dirty aprons?" )

It was a time before Facebook and Instagram and texting. I imagine it must be easier now, for college students. Home must not feel so far away anymore. But how do you cut the apron strings if the strings are virtual?

You spend so much time hating the fact that April behaves more like a mother than a sister, but you're the one who's holding onto the apron strings every time she tries to cut them.

Part of a moon was falling down the west, Dragging the whole sky with it to the hills. Its light poured softly in her lap. She saw And spread her apron to it. She put out her hand Among the harp-like morning-glory strings, Taut with the dew from garden bed to eaves, As if she played unheard the tenderness That wrought on him beside her in the night.

You know how comfortably you go on as a bachelor, and how very much you would dislike to be tied to a wife’s apron-strings.” He laughed a little ruefully, but denied it. “I shouldn’t dislike being tied to your apron-strings.

Our friendship is made of bendy straws, long midnight letters, my so-called life marathons, sleepless sleepovers, diner milk shakes, apron strings, a belief in beauty, sucking helium, and the most trust I’ve ever felt for anyone, including myself.

Kids are supposed to grow up and cut the apron strings. I just never dreamed those sharp scissors would leave so many wounds.

One of the hardest things for a teacher is to know when to keep quiet and when to let go. It is a terrible thing to hold someone back from success, or to insist on sharing credit, or to tie someone to your apron strings. We need to have faith that we have done all we can, and then we need to kick our birds out of the nest.

You know, sleeping outdoors isn’t all bad. You get to stare up at the stars and cool breezes ruffle your fur after a hot day. The grass smells sweet and,” he made eye contact with me, “so does your hair.” I blushed and grumbled, “Well, I’m glad someone enjoyed it.” He smiled smugly and said, “I did.” I had a quick flash of him as a man snuggled up next to me in the forest, imagined him resting his head on my lap while I stroked his hair, and decided to focus on the matter at hand. “Well, listen, Ren, you’re changing the subject. I don’t appreciate the way you manipulated me into being here. Mr. Kadam should’ve told me at the circus.” He shook his head. “We didn’t think you’d believe his story. He made up the trip to the tiger reserve to get you to India. We figured once you were here, I could change into a man and clarify everything.” I admitted, “You’re probably right. If you had changed to a man there, I don’t think I would have come” “Why did you come?” “I wanted to spend more time with…you. You know, the tiger. I would have missed him. I mean you.” I blushed. He grinned lopsidedly. “I would have missed you too.” I wrung the hem of my shirt between my hands. Misreading my thoughts, he said, “Kelsey. I’m truly sorry for the deception. If there’d been any other way-“ I looked up. He hung his head in a way that reminded me of the tiger. The frustration and awkwardness I felt about him dissipated. My instincts told me that I should believe him and help him. The strong emotional connection that drew me to the tiger tugged at my heart even more powerfully with the man. I felt pity for him and his situation. Softly, I asked, “When will you change into a tiger?” “Soon.” “Does it hurt?” “Not as much as it used to.” “Do you understand me when you are a tiger? Can I still speak to you?” “Yes, I’ll still be able to hear and understand you.” I took a deep breath. “Okay. I’ll stay here with you until the shaman comes back. I still have a lot of questions for you though.” “I know. I’ll try to answer them as best I can, but you’ll have to save them for tomorrow when I’ll be able to speak with you again. We can stay here for the night. The shaman should be back around dusk.” “Ren?” “Yes?” “The jungle frightens me, and this situation frightens me.” He let go of the apron string and looked into my eyes. “I know.” “Ren?” “Yes?” “Don’t…leave me, okay?” His face softened into a tender expression, and his mouth turned up in a sincere smile. “Asambhava. I won’t.” I felt myself responding to his smile with one of my own when a shadow fell across his face. He clenched his fists and tightened his jaw. I saw a tremor pass through his body, and the chair fell forward as he collapsed to the ground on his hands and knees. I stood to reach out to him and was amazed to see his body morph back into the tiger form I knew so well. Ren the tiger shook himself, then approached my outstretched hand and rubbed his head against it.

The time of weaning is very often noisy and marked by misunderstandings: I no longer feel like I did when I was first a Christian. Does that mean I am no longer a Christian? Has God abandoned me? Have I done something terribly wrong? The answer is, neither. God hasn’t abandoned you and you haven’t done anything wrong. You are being weaned. The apron strings have been cut. You are free to come to God or not come to him. You are, in a sense, on your own with an open invitation to listen and receive and enjoy our Lord.

You may be old enough to marry, Matrim Cauthon, but in truth you shouldn't be off your mother's apron strings.

All you men are the same—you’re not fit to fasten your wives’ apron strings.

Mothers are odd things. We're quick to think of their nurturing aspects, but there is also some sort of strange darkness there. It tends to be much stronger in connection with sons than with daughters. It's easy for a mother to cross an invisible line and enslave a son with kindness. There's nothing more revolting than a man incapable of slipping his mother's apron strings. He will always revert back to a boy in her presence. I see boys with unnatural attachments to their mothers all the time. It's a sign of the times in which no one ever grows up. We live in soft times.

You were right when you said I was holding onto April's apron strings even though she was trying to cut them. I've spent so long relying on her that it's sort of become a habit. It's time I relied on myself for a bit and took control of my life.

Hari Seldon called Trantor 'Star's End,' he whispered, 'and why not that bit of poetic imagery? All the universe was once guided from this rock; all the apron strings of the stars led here. 'All roads lead to Trantor,' says the old proverb, 'and that is where all stars end.

I tried to count my moles once. The same flat ones she had and which she called chocolate chips. When I was a real small kid, I actuallly believed the moles were chocolate chips and that if she stood too close to the oven, they'd melt away, so I'd tug on her apron strings and she'd laugh as I led her from the heat.

I'm coming to terms with a life in which I'll no longer be defined as a mother. It's an unsettling feeling, reminding me that motherhood is a continuous accumulation of losses, a lengthy severing of the umbilical cord that once bound our children to us. The freedom I longed for, when they were hanging from my apron strings, now loiters on the horizon. But instead of feeling excitement, I feel a swift pang of sadness for a life that will never be the same again.

It is easy to lose hope when all is lost. We do not realise that is just the beginning. That is just the catalyst. That is when we have to spread our wings like a butterfly. The rainy days will come but so will 'the botanical drawings' of life. Of kitchen tables, our mother's apron strings, cabbage roses and toys if we want to become the women our mothers were. There are so many careers for women to choose from today. Wherever they find themselves women will always find an abundance.

It is easy to lose hope when all is lost. We do not realise that is just the beginning. That is just the catalyst. That is when we have to spread our wings like a butterfly. The rainy days will come but so will 'the botanical drawings' of life. Of kitchen tables, our mother's apron strings, cabbage roses and toys if we want to become the women our mother's were. There are so many careers for women to choose from today. Wherever they find themselves women will always find an abundance.

Since the days of Peter the Great, Russia had looked to the West for her civilization, even to the extend of adopting French as a second language - or as a first for people of station and learning. The United States, recently cut loose politically from England, still drew heavily on the Old World for her art, literature, science and philosophy. Intellectuals from both nations flocked to Europe in search of eduction and aesthetic stimulation, and many became so enthralled with European civilization that they failed to return. In Russia as well as in the United States many an indignant patriot would rant about the need for serving European apron strings.

But Pauline would not take advice, She lit a match, it was so nice! It crackled so, it burned so clear,— Exactly like the picture here She jumped for joy and ran about, And was too pleased to put it out. Now see! Oh see! What a dreadful thing The fire has caught her apron-string; Her apron burns, her arms, her hair; She burns all over, everywhere.

With great reluctance— sitting in the chair with Kate and doing nothing but hold her was surprisingly satisfying— he stood, lifting her in his arms as he did so, and then set her back in the chair. “This has been a delightful interlude,” he murmured, leaning down to drop a kiss on her forehead. “But I fear your mother’s early return. I shall see you Saturday morning?” She blinked. “Saturday?” “A superstition of my mother’s,” he said with a sheepish smile. “She thinks it’s bad luck for the bride and groom to see one another the day before the wedding.” “Oh.” She rose to her feet, self-consciously smoothing her dress and hair. “And do you believe it as well?” “Not at all,” he said with a snort. She nodded. “It’s very sweet of you to indulge your mother, then.” Anthony paused for a moment, well aware that most men of his reputation did not want to appear tied to apron strings. But this was Kate, and he knew that she valued devotion to family as much as he did, so he finally said, “There is little I would not do to keep my mother content.” She smiled shyly. “It is one of the things I like best about you.” He made some sort of gesture designed to change the subject, but she interrupted with, “No, it’s true. You’re far more caring a person than you’d like people to believe.” Since he wasn’t going to be able to win the argument with her— and there was little point in contradicting a woman when she was being complimentary— he put a finger to his lips and said, “Shhh. Don’t tell anyone.” And then, with one last kiss to her hand and a murmured, “Adieu,” he made his way out the door and outside. -Anthony & Kate

Toby knew not whether to be agonised or glad, to see that Meg had turned a deadly white, and dropped her lover’s hand. ‘And as for you, you dull dog,’ said the Alderman, turning with even increased cheerfulness and urbanity to the young smith, ‘what are you thinking of being married for? What do you want to be married for, you silly fellow? If I was a fine, young, strapping chap like you, I should be ashamed of being milksop enough to pin myself to a woman’s apron-strings! Why, she’ll be an old woman before you’re a middle-aged man! And a pretty figure you’ll cut then, with a draggle-tailed wife and a crowd of squalling children crying after you wherever you go!

It was a rustling sound that woke me up. Because I'd had my eyes closed, the whiteness of the room seemed even brighter than before. There wasn't a shadow anywhere in front of me, and every object, every angle and curve stood out so sharply it made my eyes hurt. That's when Maman's friends came in. There were about ten in all, and they floated into the blinding light without a sound. They sat down without a single chair creaking. I saw them more clearly than I had ever seen anyone, and not one detail of their faces or their clothes escaped me. But I couldn't hear them, and it was hard for me to believe that they really existed. Almost all the women were wearing aprons, and the strings, which were tied tight around their waists, made their bulging stomachs stick out even more. I'd never noticed what huge stomachs old women can have. Almost all the men were skinny and carried canes. What struck me most about their faces was that I couldn't see their eyes, just a faint glimmer in a nest of wrinkles. When they'd sat down, most of them looked at me and nodded awkwardly, their lips sucked in by their toothless mouths, so that I couldn't tell if they were greeting me or if it was just a nervous tic. I think they were greeting me. It was then that I realized they were all sitting across from me, nodding their heads, grouped around the caretaker. For a second I had the ridiculous feeling that they were there to judge me.

I remember." I nod. Wanting to say: I remember everything-all of it-the question is: Do you? But instead, I stare down at my feet, smiling stupidly. Everything I do around him is stupid. Some Seeker I've turned out to be. Attempting to redeem myself,say something normal,not let on that I already know he's employed here-thanks to the raven who allowed me to spy on him earlier,I say, "So,I guess you hang out here a lot then?" He pushes a hand through his hair, as his eyes-the color of aquamarines-glide down the length of me.And damn if I can't feel their trajectory. It's like showering in a stream of warm, molten honey-dripping from the top of my forehead all the way down to my feet. "I guess you could say that," he says,voicelow and deep. "More than most, anyway." He waves a damp towel, tugs on the string of his apron, and I blush in reply. The sight of it reminding me of what I saw in the alleyway-watching him lean against the wall,his face so soft anddreamy I longed to touch him-kiss him-like I did in the dream. I study him closely,seeking traces of recognition, remembrance-some small token of evidence to assure me that, as odd as it seems,that kiss in the cave was as real as it felt-but coming up empty. "So,how long have you worked here?" I ask, returning to the topic at hand. My gaze drifting over the black V-necked T-shirt skimming the sinuous line of his body-telling myself it's all part of my reconnaissance,my need to gather as uch information as I can about him and his kin. But knowing that's not really it.The truth is,I like looking at him, being near him. "I guess you could say somewhere between too long and not long enough-depending on the state of my wallet." His laugh is good-natured and easy-the kid that starts at the belly and trips all the way up. "It's pretty much the only decent game in town." He shrugs. "One way or another,you end up working for the Richters,and believe me, this is one of the better gigs." I peer at him closely,remembering what Cade said when I was here via the raven. How he referred to him by another name. "You're not a Richter?" I ask,holding my breath in my cheeks.Despite what Paloma told me, I need to hear it from him,confirm that he doesn't identify with their clan. "I go by Whitefeather," he says,gaze steady and serious. "I was raised by my mom,didn't even know the Richters when I was a kid." Despite getting the answer I wanted, I frown in return. His being a Richter was a good reason to avoid him-without it,I'm out of excuses. "Is that okay?" He dips his head toward mine,his mouth tugging at the side. "You seem a little upset by the news." I shake my head,break free of my reverie, and say, "No-not at all. Believe me,it's more like a relief." I meet his gaze,seeing the way it narrows in question. "Guess I'm not a big fan of your brother," I add,watching as he throws his head back and laughs,the sight of that long,glorious column of neck forcing me to look away,it's too much to take. "If it makes you feel any better, most of the time I'd have to agree." He returns to me,the warmth of his gaze solely reponsible for the wave of comfort that flows through me.

He smiled and pulled the ugly white fichu from her neck. She blinked and looked down at the simple, square neckline of her bodice as if she'd never seen it. Perhaps she hadn't. Perhaps she dressed in the dark like a nun. "What are you doing?" He sighed. "I confess, I find your naïveté perplexing. How have you arrived at the advanced age of six and twenty without having anyone attempt seduction upon yourself? I'm of two minds on the matter: One, utter astonishment at my sex and their deaf disregard for your siren call. Two, glee at the thought that your innocence might signal that you are indeed innocent. Why this should excite me so, I don't know- virginity has never before been a particular whim of mine. I think perhaps it's the setting. Who knows how many virgins were deflowered here by my lusty ancestors? Or," he said as he deftly unpinned and tossed aside her apron, "maybe it's simply you." "I don't..." Her words trailed off and then, interestingly, she blushed a deep rose. Well. That question settled, then. His little maiden was really a maiden. "What?" "I think it's you," he confided, pulling the strings tying her hideous mobcap beneath her chin. She made a wild grab for it, but he was faster, snatching the bloody thing off- finally, and with a great deal of satisfaction. She might've deprived him of a wife that it'd taken him half a year and a rather large sum of money to entangle, but by God, he'd taken off her awful cap. And underneath... "Oh, Séraphine," he breathed, enchanted, for her hair was as black as coal, as black as night, as black as his own soul, save for one white streak just over her left eye. But she'd twisted and braided and tortured the strands, binding them tight to her head, and his fingers itched to let them free. "Don't!" she said, as if she knew what he wanted, her hands flying up to cover her hair. He batted them aside, laughing, pulling a pin here, a pin there, dropping them carelessly to the carpet as she squealed like a little girl and backed away from him, trying frantically to ward off his fingers. He might've taken pity on her had he not just spent an hour on a freezing moor, wondering if he was going to find her dead, neck broken, at the bottom of a hill. Her hair came down all at once, a tumbling mass, tousled and heavy and nearly down to her waist. "Wonderful," he murmured, taking it in both hands and lifting it.

When we first started dating, my talent in the kitchen was a turn-on. The prospect of me in the kitchen, wearing a skimpy apron and holding a whisk in my hand- he thought that was sexy. And, as someone with little insight into how to work her own sex appeal, I pounced on the opportunity to make him want and need me. I spent four days preparing my first home-cooked meal for him, a dinner of wilted escarole salad with hot bacon dressing, osso bucco with risotto Milanese and gremolata, and a white-chocolate toasted-almond semifreddo for dessert. At the time, I lived with three other people in a Columbia Heights town house, so I told all of my housemates to make themselves scarce that Saturday night. When Adam showed up at my door, as the rich smell of braised veal shanks wafted through the house, I greeted him holding a platter of prosciutto-wrapped figs, wearing nothing but a slinky red apron. He grabbed me by the waist and pushed me into the kitchen, slowly untying the apron strings resting on my rounded hips, and moments later we were making love on the tiled kitchen floor. Admittedly, I worried the whole time about when I should start the risotto and whether he'd even want osso bucco once we were finished, but it was the first time I'd seduced someone like that, and it was lovely. Adam raved about that meal- the rich osso bucco, the zesty gremolata, the sweet-and-salty semifreddo- and that's when I knew cooking was my love language, my way of expressing passion and desire and overcoming all of my insecurities. I learned that I may not be comfortable strutting through a room in a tight-fitting dress, but I can cook one hell of a brisket, and I can do it in the comfort of my own home, wearing an apron and nothing else. Adam loved my food, and he loved watching me work in the kitchen even more, the way my cheeks would flush from the heat of the stove and my hair would twist into delicate red curls along my hairline. As the weeks went by, I continued to seduce him with pork ragu and roasted chicken, creamed spinach and carrot sformato, cannolis and brownies and chocolate-hazelnut cake.

St. Louis Blues (1929) I hate to see de evenin' sun go down, Hate to see de evenin' sun go down 'Cause ma baby, he done lef' dis town. Feelin' tomorrow like I feel today, Feel tomorrow like I feel today, I'll pack my trunk, make ma git away. Saint Louis woman wid her diamon' rings Pulls dat man 'roun' by her apron strings. 'Twant for powder an' for store-bought hair, De man ah love would not gone nowhere, nowhere. Got de Saint Louis Blues jes as blue as ah can be. That man got a heart lak a rock cast in the sea. Or else he wouldn't have gone so far from me. Doggone it! I loves day man lak a schoolboy loves his pie, Lak a Kentucky Col'nel loves his mint an' rye. I'll love ma baby till the day ah die. Been to de gypsy to get ma fortune tole, To de gypsy, done got ma fortune tole, Cause I'm most wile 'bout ma Jelly Roll. Gypsy done tole me, "Don't you wear no black." Yes, she done told me, "Don't you wear no black. Go to Saint Louis, you can win him back." Help me to Cairo, make Saint Louis by maself, Git to Cairo, find ma old friend Jeff, Gwine to pin maself close to his side; If ah flag his train, I sho' can ride. Got de Saint Louis Blues jes as blue as ah can be. That man got a heart lak a rock cast in the sea. Or else he wouldn't have gone so far from me. Doggone it! I loves day man lak a schoolboy loves his pie, Lak a Kentucky Colonel loves his mint an' rye. I'll love ma baby till the day I die. You ought to see dat stovepipe brown of mine, Lak he owns de Dimon' Joseph line, He'd make a cross-eyed o'man go stone blin'. Blacker than midnight, teeth lak flags of truce, Blackest man in de whole of Saint Louis, Blacker de berry, sweeter am de juice. About a crap game, he knows a pow'ful lot, But when worktime comes, he's on de dot. Gwine to ask him for a cold ten-spot, What it takes to git it, he's cert'nly got. Got de Saint Louis Blues jes as blue as ah can be. Dat man got a heart lak a rock cast in the sea. Or else he wouldn't have gone so far from me. Doggone it! I loves day man lak a schoolboy loves his pie, Lak a Kentucky Col'nel loves his mint an' rye. I'll love ma baby till the day ah die. A black-headed gal makes a freight train jump the track, said a black-headed Gal makes a freight train jump the track, But a long tall gal makes a preacher ball the jack. Lawd, a blonde-headed woman makes a good man leave the town, I said Blonde-headed woman makes a good man leave the town, But a red-headed woman makes a boy slap his papa down. Oh, ashes to ashes and dust to dust, I said ashes to ashes and dust to dust, If my blues don't get you, my jazzing must.

One of the most effective ways to quicken your story’s pace is to move from a static description of an object, place or person to an active scene. The classic method for accomplishing this is to have your character interact with the subject that’s been described. For instance, let’s say you’ve just written three paragraphs describing a wedding dress in a shop window. You’ve detailed the Belgian lace veil, the beaded bodice, the twelve-foot train, even the row of satin buttons down the sleeves. Instinctively you feel it’s time to move into an action scene, but how do you do it without making your transition obvious? A simple, almost seamless way is to initiate an action between your character (let’s call her Miranda) and the dress you’ve just described. Perhaps Miranda could be passing by on the sidewalk when the dress in the window catches her attention. Or she could walk into the shop and ask the shopkeeper how much the dress costs. This method works well to link almost any static description with a scene of action. Describe an elegant table, for instance, complete with crystal goblets, damask tablecloth, monogrammed napkins and sterling silver tableware; then let the maid pull a cloth from her apron and begin to polish one of the forks. Or describe a Superman kite lying beside a tree, then watch as a little girl grabs the string and begins to run. You will still be describing, but the nature of your description will have changed from static to active, thus quickening the story’s pace. Throughout

Chicago, Illinois 1896 Opening Night Wearing her Brünnhilda costume, complete with padding, breastplate, helm, and false blond braids, and holding a spear as if it were a staff, Sophia Maxwell waited in the wings of the Canfield-Pendegast theatre. The bright stage lighting made it difficult to see the audience filling the seats for opening night of Die Walküre, but she could feel their anticipation build as the time drew near for the appearance of the Songbird of Chicago. She took slow deep breaths, inhaling the smell of the greasepaint she wore on her face. Part of her listened to the music for her cue, and the other part immersed herself in the role of the god Wotan’s favorite daughter. From long practice, Sophia tried to ignore quivers of nervousness. Never before had stage fright made her feel ill. Usually she couldn’t wait to make her appearance. Now, however, nausea churned in her stomach, timpani banged pain-throbs through her head, her muscles ached, and heat made beads of persperation break out on her brow. I feel more like a plucked chicken than a songbird, but I will not let my audience down. Annoyed with herself, Sophia reached for a towel held by her dresser, Nan, standing at her side. She lifted the helm and blotted her forehead, careful not to streak the greasepaint. Nan tisked and pulled out a small brush and a tin of powder from one of the caprious pockets of her apron. She dipped the brush into the powder and wisked it across Sophia’s forehead. “You’re too pale. You need more rouge.” “No time.” A rhythmic sword motif sounded the prelude to Act ll. Sophia pivoted away from Nan and moved to the edge of the wing, looking out to the scene of a rocky mountain pass. Soon the warrior-maiden Brünnhilda would make an appearance with her famous battle cry. She allowed the anticpaptory energy of the audience to fill her body. The trills of the high strings and upward rushing passes in the woodwinds introduced Brünnhilda. Right on cue, Sophia made her entrance and struck a pose. She took a deep breath, preparing to hit the opening notes of her battle call. But as she opened her mouth to sing, nothing came out. Caught off guard, Sophia cleared her throat and tried again. Nothing. Horrified, she glanced around, as if seeking help, her body hot and shaky with shame. Across the stage in the wings, Sophia could see Judith Deal, her understudy and rival, watching. The other singer was clad in a similar costume to Sophia’s for her role as the valkerie Gerhilde. A triumphant expression crossed her face. Warwick Canfield-Pendegast, owner of the theatre, stood next to Judith, his face contorted in fury. He clenched his chubby hands. A wave of dizziness swept through Sophia. The stage lights dimmed. Her knees buckled. As she crumpled to the ground, one final thought followed her into the darkness. I’ve just lost my position as prima dona of the Canfield-Pendegast Opera Company.

The Enchanted Broccoli Forest. Oh, what a pleasure that was! Mollie Katzen's handwritten and illustrated recipes that recalled some glorious time in upstate New York when a girl with an appetite could work at a funky vegetarian restaurant and jot down some tasty favorites between shifts. That one had the Pumpkin Tureen soup that Margo had made so many times when she first got the book. She loved the cheesy onion soup served from a pumpkin with a hot dash of horseradish and rye croutons. And the Cardamom Coffee Cake, full of butter, real vanilla, and rich brown sugar, said to be a favorite at the restaurant, where Margo loved to imagine the patrons picking up extras to take back to their green, grassy, shady farmhouses dotted along winding country roads. Linda's Kitchen by Linda McCartney, Paul's first wife, the vegetarian cookbook that had initially spurred her yearlong attempt at vegetarianism (with cheese and eggs, thank you very much) right after college. Margo used to have to drag Calvin into such phases and had finally lured him in by saying that surely anything Paul would eat was good enough for them. Because of Linda's Kitchen, Margo had dived into the world of textured vegetable protein instead of meat, and tons of soups, including a very good watercress, which she never would have tried without Linda's inspiration. It had also inspired her to get a gorgeous, long marble-topped island for prep work. Sometimes she only cooked for the aesthetic pleasure of the gleaming marble topped with rustic pottery containing bright fresh veggies, chopped to perfection. Then Bistro Cooking by Patricia Wells caught her eye, and she took it down. Some pages were stuck together from previous cooking nights, but the one she turned to, the most splattered of all, was the one for Onion Soup au Gratin, the recipe that had taught her the importance of cheese quality. No mozzarella or broken string cheeses with- maybe- a little lacy Swiss thrown on. And definitely none of the "fat-free" cheese that she'd tried in order to give Calvin a rich dish without the cholesterol. No, for this to be great, you needed a good, aged, nutty Gruyère from what you couldn't help but imagine as the green grassy Alps of Switzerland, where the cows grazed lazily under a cheerful children's-book blue sky with puffy white clouds. Good Gruyère was blocked into rind-covered rounds and aged in caves before being shipped fresh to the USA with a whisper of fairy-tale clouds still lingering over it. There was a cheese shop downtown that sold the best she'd ever had. She'd tried it one afternoon when she was avoiding returning home. A spunky girl in a visor and an apron had perked up as she walked by the counter, saying, "Cheese can change your life!" The charm of her youthful innocence would have been enough to be cheered by, but the sample she handed out really did it. The taste was beyond delicious. It was good alone, but it cried out for ham or turkey or a rich beefy broth with deep caramelized onions for soup.

than I needs a drink. Change comes slow, but it do

remembered Stuart did when she wore it. “Think I can wear this one?” “Is too big. I ‘spect Stuart gonna be fighting with ya mama ‘bout wearing

What happened to your face, sir?” Rose answered before he did, with the pride of a child who was delivering news of great significance. “Mr. Bronson ran into a left hook again, Mama. He was fighting. And he brought this to me.” She pulled the end of her button string from her large apron pocket and climbed into Holly's lap to display her newest acquisition. Cuddling her daughter, Holly examined the button carefully. It was fashioned of a huge sparkling diamond encased in rich yellow gold. Bewildered, she glanced at Elizabeth's rueful face, and Paula's tight-lipped one, before finally staring into Bronson's enigmatic black eyes. “You shouldn't have given Rose such a costly object, Mr. Bronson. Whose button is it? And why were you fighting?” “I had a disagreement with someone in my club.” “Over money?… Over a woman?…” Bronson's expression revealed nothing, and he gave an indifferent shrug, as if the matter were of no importance. Considering various possibilities, Holly continued to stare at him in the tense silence that had overtaken the room. Suddenly the answer occurred to her. “Over me?” she whispered. Idly Bronson picked a skein of thread from his sleeve. “Not really.” Holly suddenly discovered that she knew him well enough to discern when he was lying. “Yes, it was,” she said with growing conviction. “Someone must have said something unpleasant, and instead of ignoring the remark, you took up the challenge. Oh, Mr. Bronson, how could you?” Seeing her unhappiness, instead of the grateful admiration he had probably expected, Bronson scowled. “Would you rather I allowed some high-kick b—” He paused to correct himself as he noticed the rapt attention Rose was paying to the conversation. “Some high-kick fellow,” he said, his tone softening a degree, “to spread lies about you? His mouth needed to be shut, and I was able and willing to do it.” “The only way to respond to a distasteful remark is to ignore it,” Holly said crisply. “You did the exact opposite, thereby creating the impression in some people's minds that there may be a grain of truth in it. You should not have fought for my honor. You should have smiled disdainfully at any slight upon it, resting secure in the knowledge that there is nothing dishonorable about our relationship.” “But my lady, I would fight the world for you.” Bronson said it in the way he always made such startling comments, in a tone of such jeering lightness that the listener had no doubt he was being facetious. Elizabeth broke in then, her lips curved in a droll smile. “He'll use any excuse to fight, Lady Holly. My brother enjoys using his fists, primitive male that he is.” “That is an aspect of his character we will have to correct.

Part of me wanted to run away, but the other small part of me that usually saves me from being a total pain in the ass was wondering if they made those white frilly aprons wide enough to fit over Nathaniel’s shoulders. I mean if he was going to play Suzy Homemaker, didn’t he need an apron, and maybe a string of pearls? The thought made me giggle, and I couldn’t stop it, and I couldn’t share it. I ended up having to excuse myself from the table to let the laughter have its way with me.

Two boys of about eight years old ran alongside the road, taking advantage of the evening sunshine and chasing each other in the overgrown spring grass. Their feet crushed the leaves, releasing the tang of tender new growth. She waited until the children passed, but no clarity came. Her thoughts remained as tangled as the weeds.

She turned away, intent on finding work to distract her from her disturbing thoughts, and crashed into Nathan. He didn’t say anything, just cradled her elbows, steadying her. She wanted to press her face into his flannel shirt and cry for Mrs. Lacy, and Matty Delarue, and the teenage boy ruining her bread, but most of all for Nathan, and if she were honest, for herself, because she was afraid that sooner or later, he’d have to go. She didn’t need him for the store, but she needed him. Or at least she thought she did. She felt so firm in what she wanted for the store, and how she wanted to carve out a name for herself, yet uncertain about how to go about it and have Nathan, too.

At the first chord of an old hymn, the music took Joann back and grounded her in the present simultaneously. The only thing better than being in the arms of her family was to be in the arms of Jesus, and the music reminded her how blessed she was. Nothing was as glorious as being with loved ones, celebrating God’s goodness in the company of believers.

Mrs. Delarue’s son was stationed stateside, but hadn’t been for a visit. {Military} Leave was hard to come by. The Delarues had been to see him, but Joann knew it wasn’t the same. Holidays were hard when part of the family was missing. Nothing could fill the hole absent loved ones left.

must have looked like a mild fit, I had failed to pay attention to my surroundings. Mrs. Mason’s approach startled me. I swallowed and tried to remember the crucial steps of the “first greeting” my mother had drilled into each of us: look them in the eye, remember their names, smile and be pleasant, and above

without much fanfare. My mother invited the usual neighborhood kids over, but fewer of them showed up than in previous years.

What doesn't kill you makes a good story.

The Devil’s Chair The Stiperstones in Shropshire are connected with a range of local folklore. They were stolen from the devil by a giantess after his apron-strings broke scattering stones, but he then made her apron-strings break casing the five stones to scatter. However the stones dropped by the giantess were connected with a prophecy, which said that if the stones sank into the earth then England would come to ruin. The devil frequently visits the stones to try and force them into the earth so he can claim all the souls in England, and sits on the stone called the Devil’s Chair, trying to force it into the earth.xxix Another

Mother's Apron There's a great old skit called "Mother's Apron" that touts the many household uses of the apron. This basic skit, with its infinite individual variations, has been performed by women's church and community clubs for generations. Below is a version remembered by Bernice Esau that was presented by her mother, probably originally in Low German, the common language of the rural Minnesota community where it was performed, hence the slightly lilting, old-fashioned sound to it: Do you remember Mother's aprons? Always big they were, and their uses were many. Besides the foremost purpose, the protection of the dress beneath, it was a holder for removal of hot pans from the oven. It was wonderful for drying children's tears and, yes, even for wiping small noses. From the henhouse it carried eggs, fuzzy chicks, ducklings, or goslings, and sometimes half-hatched eggs to be finished in the warming oven. Its folds provided an ideal hiding place for shy children, and when guests lingered on chilly days, the apron was wrapped about Mother's arms. Innumerable times it wiped a perspiring brow bent over a hot wood-burning stove. Corncobs and wood kindlings came to the kitchen stove in that ample garment, as did fresh peas and string beans from the garden. Often they were podded and stemmed in the lap the apron covered. Windfall apples were gathered in it, and wildflowers. Chairs were hastily dusted with its corners when unexpected company was sighted. Waving it aloft was as good as a dinner bell to call the men from the field. Big they were, and useful. Now I wonder, will any modern-day apron provoke such sweet and homesick memories?

Professional chefs aren't the only ones who get to wear an apron to work. There are welders and farriers and fishmongers and printers and grocery clerks and artists and florists and bakers and housekeepers and lab technicians and carpenters, to name a few who call an apron their uniform, and lucky them. How nice to be able to shift gears from leisure to work and back again with the tug of an apron string.

the strings of her mother’s apron

Apron strings.... What do they mean? Your grandmas love or your mother's dream? We remember when every day when they wore these signs of love for ever lore...

Because, do you think any of the other moms are buying cupcakes from Food Lion? How would that make Kitty look?” “Well, if it’s for Kitty, then Kitty should be helping.” Peter hops off the stool and comes up to me and slides his hands around my waist and tries to untie my apron strings. “Where is the kid?” I stare at him. “What… are you doing?” Peter looks at me like I’m a dummy. “I need an apron too if I’m going to help. I’m not trying to get my clothes all messed up.

Min has brought me a present of my own. It is a shiny pink apron. On the apron there are words, curling white and maggoty letters: 'Little lady'. Min holds the apron in front of my face until I am forced to look at it. She slips the string over my head and ties the back securely with a double knot.

God sent Jesus to seek and save the lost, not force people to a bunch of rules.

The Last Labrador Duck Thirteen days to Christmas. The boy’s little sister is loudly hungry, his mother silently, bent at the apron strings. The boy goes to the river wide with ice. He slips; his father’s gun knocks his knee. The hawthorns are scratchy lines as indecipherable to him as newspapers. He stops. There’s a block of grubby snow on the sleek ice. Brown and white, a noose of black. The ice creaks as the boy creeps close. The bird doesn’t stir. Its eyes look closed. Until now, he’s never wondered if birds sleep. The bill is orange at the base, the tip black as a bruised toe. He tugs a glove off with his teeth and raises the gun. He loaded the right shot and it goes straight through. He’s saved his mother a job. The wings aren’t even unfolded. He’s never seen black feet on a duck. Before he puts his glove back on, he touches the bill; it feels so soft, as if the bird is touching him back. He swings the grub home, gavels it on the table his mother just scrubbed. She smiles and he leaves her to it. He’ll go tell Bob on Maple. At supper, it’s awful. Bitter as bark. He’d spit it out if they weren’t so hungry. He coughs, a tiny feather drowned in his throat. That makes his sister giggle. His mother and his father laugh, until a knock at the door quiets them. A man, his hair oiled flat. Not scrawny, yet he’s come for their scraps. The boy’s mother hands him the garbage pail. The man takes out the duck’s head and neck. He’s brought a newspaper to wrap the decapitation in. The man can read, the boy can tell. Labrador duck, the man reckons. That flattened, tar-dipped bill. Rare as a unicorn. Don’t worry, says the boy. It tastes revolting. I’ll leave the next one I see alone.

She is here. She is not here. She is reaching out to me with a touch deceptive as down, with hands and fingers that wave like grass around my feet, and her hair falls and falls and falls from her head like streamers of paper rain. She is a maypole woman to whose apron-string streamers I cling and around whose skirts I dance. She is a ship leaving the harbour, tied to me by coloured paper streamers that break and fall into a swirling wake. The wake is a thin black pencil-line that deepens and widens and fills with a greyness that reaches out with tentacles to embrace me. I leap and wake.

His dark eyebrow arches at me and then he does something that makes the ground tremble under my feet. He shakes his head at me. Just a quick tweak of his head. Just one. He’s telling me no. That I can’t leave. That he isn’t allowing it. I feel the certainty of our communication down to my toes and automatically, my fingers leave the strings of my apron. I press my thighs together as tightly as possible so the resulting wetness doesn’t run down my inner thighs. Thank God my lower half is hidden by the worktable. Based on the way Sebastian’s blue eyes darken, however, he knows very well the effect his silent command is having on me.

What they didn’t realize is that it was my world they were getting ready to go out into. I had been making my way in it since before they were born and had some things to say about life after cutting the apron strings that could prove just as beneficial as anything they had gotten out of their books.

So when we received another request to do the spring commencement address for the class of 1996 and since it fit into our tour routing, I decided to give it a shot. Well, as soon as the news was released, a few of the college students expressed disdain that the powers that be would select somebody who had never been to college and was known more for redneck songs than for the more genteel pursuits of academia. Soon the criticism showed up in the college newspaper and local media. The pushback came mainly from two seniors named Moore and Leonard. They seemed to think it would be a disgrace to be addressed by someone they considered several cuts below the intelligence level required to speak before such an august body of young men and women who were preparing to go out and make their way in the world. What they didn’t realize is that it was my world they were getting ready to go out into. I had been making my way in it since before they were born and had some things to say about life after cutting the apron strings that could prove just as beneficial as anything they had gotten out of their books.

And so the final and greatest reality, that national strength lies only in the hearts and spirits of men. The Army, Navy, and Air Force are not the guardians of the national security. The tremendous problem of the future is beyond their capacity to solve. The search begins at the cradle where the mother makes the decision, either to tie her child to her apron strings or to rear him as a man. It continues through the years of schooling when children are taught either to place personal interests uppermost or to think in terms of their responsibility toward their society, their country, and all of mankind. It carries into the halls of government where our lawmakers may vote either to awaken our youth to a new understanding of duty or to continue the indulgent course which is more likely to find favor with the majority of their constituents.

Sons must aspire to be greater than their fathers, but at our apron-strings we only teach them to be children.

ANECDOTE So silent I when love was by He yawned, and turned away; But sorrow clings to my apron-strings, I have so much to say.

Bull, Jean-Luc!” shot back Calhoun. “We live in a galaxy of chaos! Of infinite probabilities! We layer our orders and rules atop them, pat ourselves on the back, and tell ourselves that we have a handle on it all. We don’t. We just enjoy pretending that we do. But every once in a while, the sheer unpredictability of this insane, demented galaxy catches up with us. And we either do what needs to be done, or we cling to rules like children to their mother’s apron strings and act like everything’s okay when it’s not. And when that happens, that’s when those who thrive on chaos sneak in and tear us down, little bit by