I have scads of aprons. I've worn most of them at one time or another, although I confess some still have the pristine creases from the day they were packed and sent.
In other words, some I have bought, and some have been gifts.
Some were souvenirs I especially wanted, others just seem to have caught the fancy of the giver: "Hey, Cookiecrumb likes dogs; let's give her this dog apron." (I have worn the dog apron. A lot.)
All but one of them are factory jobs. Most have logos, although some are just screen-printed with nice images.
A few have (I think) cachet: one from The Fillmore in San Francisco; another from Spago in Hollywood — way back when.
Three of them are newspaper-related, although I have no idea where that New York Times apron came from. The black Examiner apron is actually one of those abbreviated items news vendors used to wear (and maybe still do).
I think you can sense a certain fondness in me for my collection.
But Ilva, at Lucullian Delights, wants me to single out just one.
It's that blue flowered thing. Quilted fabric with hideous yellow straps.
Cranky's sister made the apron for me a million years ago. I've always loved the way it ties on, snug like a hug. The pockets are just right, and it fits. (So many manufactured aprons seem to be made for Julia Child-size people.) Not the prettiest item, but very sentimental and useful.
When Cranky's sister saw me wearing it, ages after she had given it to me, she said, "Oh, that's what I made for you? I'm so sorry."
No, honey. Look. See how many times it's been laundered?