One afternoon at a function in the church basement I noticed someone had meticulously arranged a display of aprons. One apron had a little sign on it describing its former owner. A great-grandmother, her children, grand-children and great-grand-children numbered something like 70.
And the author of the sign figured that this apron was worn for every meal ever served those 70 descendants in her kitchen.
The thought occurred to me that if you asked those people to describe their matriarch the description would surely include that apron.
It was her uniform. And since it covered her from shoulders to knee they might have little idea what else she had on. That woman's identity was defined by that apron. And a realization came crashing down on my head: I wanted that.
Increasingly, I'm aware of a longing to be connected with my home and mothering. I wanted my kids and my future grand-kids and great-grandkids to think of me, not as I come running in the door from work at 6pm, but as I function in my kitchen, serving up some homemade comfort in my "uniform", my identity, my apron.
When I set about to find the quintessential apron I was amazed to see that with all we consumers have at our fingertips, nowhere could I find a good old-fashioned apron. Pretty much every apron out there was the basic "butcher" style. No frills. One piece of fabric. Twill tape ties.
Being a sewer, I was undaunted. I figured I'd make one. But that turned out to be much more difficult than I realized. Somehow what seemed to be a perfectly simple and utilitarian article was not so easily captured. So, I began to research. And sew. And sew and sew.
Then, the more I sewed, the more I realized I wasn't just trying to make the perfect apron. I was setting out to recreate a familiar comfort of a time past. I also realized if I felt that way, maybe others did too.
And BellaPamella was born.