Quotes About Aprons

And there by the pump stood a group of women with their hands under their aprons, watching the procession and discussing in hushed voices all this floral display and pomp.

The scale of her belly and breasts was not unlike early fertility goddesses found in Greece around 6000 BC, except they did not wear polka-dot aprons. Did they suffer from hypochondria? Hysteria? Were they bold? Lame? Too full of the milk of human kindness?

Waiters in long white aprons

a friend back in her hometown of Battle Point had thrown her a well-attended Apron Collection bridal shower, so Dolly owned an impressive variety of aprons, nineteen in all, one to match nearly every one of her dresses—because she had read somewhere that "nothing says 'happy home' to a husband like his smiling wife, in an apron and lovely dress, bidding him come to the table, where she has a colorful, balanced, hot meal waiting.

I like to collect aprons from different places I go. I first started when I was in Italy because I thought that would be really appropriate. I got a hand-stitched Italian apron from this woman in Sicily who put my name on it, and it said, 'Sicily, Italy.' So now I get one from everywhere I go.

long aprons with starch. Off in the drawing room, it sounded like bees buzzing. Missus showed

Usually I wear my grandma's old aprons, or others I have collected in my travels. When I was young, I would sit and watch my grandma prepare stuff. She wasn't Italian, but she did really good Italian food.

The waiters wore striped waistcoats and green baize aprons. Bond ordered an Americano and examined the sprinkling of over-dressed customers, mostly from Paris he guessed, who sat talking with focus and vivacity, creating that theatrically clubbable atmosphere of 'l'heure de l'apéritif'.

Bakers get excited over aprons. I love the soft cotton ones with pockets like my gramma and mom wore. They always kept a hankie tucked in one pocket, which wasn't sanitary, but was comforting to the child who needed a tear or nose wiped.

The crowd, still shouting, gives way before us. We plough our way through. Women hold their aprons over their faces and go stumbling away. A roar of fury goes up. A wounded man is being carried off.

I waited until they had all filed into the church, the communicants, the families, the gawking townspeople—and these last included farmers, mechanics in blue overalls, and stallholders, some of them from the carnicería, their aprons gathered and bunched in their hands, the white cloth reddened with blood spatter from the slabs of cow meat, pigs' heads, and pigs' trotters they had knifed apart that morning.