Back in boarding school, Miss Clavel recognized my confidence in the kitchen and quickly put me in charge of the cooking staff. Two weeks in, I was lecturing them on the best eggs for Quiche Lorraine (black copper marons), the proper way to catch and kill rats (wall-mounted glue traps), stuff like that. I also taught them how to steal truffles and eclairs without the pastry chef finding out, and a girl doesn’t divulge her secrets.

The one thing I refused to do was wear an apron. Starchy, sad sacks they were – better suited for my 280-pound Aunt Benji who lives at Panda Express and collects ATVs. Fortunately, I was very accomplished when it came to food preparation (I’ve been known to de-seed fifteen pomegranates in just under three minutes) and my yellow frock remains spotless to this day.

The aprons of our dear great-grandmothers? Now, these were things of stunning beauty. I found this 18th century silk faille apron at La Clarière in Paris last weekend. It’s the most bewitching shade of teal, and its metal-thread embroidered flowers are stunning. Of course, Giselle will not be allowed to touch it.  I, however, am donning it for a cocktail party this evening, it is THAT gorgeous.

Bisous, loves –
M.