When I was a teen-ager, my mother would often remind me to put on an apron when working in the kitchen. Sort of irritated me, but after all, she was the one doing the laundry. When I was 60 and visiting my parents, I'd just chuckle when my father would say, "Baby, put on an apron." (Didn't mind being called Baby because that's about as affectionate as he got, but having him tell me to wear an apron. . well. . .). This morning I put on my new light teal shirt (meeting friends for coffee at Worthington Panera’s) and looked down and there was a food splatter. I'd worn it on Sunday and made cabbage soup with a chicken broth base. I dabbed at it with cold water without much success, but I'll forever hear Dad when I put it on.