I learned how to iron. Seriously, I’m 30 years old and until recently thought all American Express cards were gold & all gas stations were full service. Cooking is a hobby- not a chore.... and this life of privilege seems anything but.
Ironing? That is why God gave us dry cleaners (and dryers with a wet rag when in a serious pinch). I own an iron. I own an ironing board. I’ve placed a hot iron on clothes, napkins, and the like, but my ironing is always concluded with someone else fixing it.
Our last trip to Augusta found a new project in my lap. The back bathroom found the Martha in me. Mama & Daddy have all kinds of cool things in boxes and drawers- so, I have taken it upon myself to find homes where these items can be seen and admired. Mama’s linens are nothing short of amazing. The woman who cannot sew a button or a hem inherited the most beautiful whipped stitched bridge clothes, hand something-or-other doilies, and pieces that are nothing short of breathtaking. (which is a bold statement, considering that we are talking about old textiles!)
I pull out the iron.
I pick out the linens.
I buy the frames.
Ironed and in the process of framing, Celeste comes in and says, “Honey- you need to starch those. Is your iron even on?”
Of course it’s on. It’s hot, ain’t it?
“Honey, it’s not hot enough. Go find your mother’s starch and come right back.”
Starch is the dandiest invention. And, did you know that you need to get the wrinkles wet to get rid of them? I had a spray bottle and learned about something called 'catheads' which am still curious what they are (but a perfectly ironed article has none). And starch that smelled like lavender. I was sweating ironing these little hand stitched white clothes into pieces of firm cardboard. It was lovely.
An hour later, I have had a lesson in ironing & I’m a damn good ironer. Don’t get me wrong, I still have a gold card that pays for my dry cleaning- but I am getting a little more domesticated.
Martha Stewart would be so proud.