Updated: Aug. 22, 2023
Originally Published: May 10, 2023
“Just in case you marry someone who doesn’t know how,” she remarked with a light eye roll. “No one teaches this anymore.”
It was the summer of 1990, and at the age of 12, I found myself in the kitchen beside my mother, both of us focused on the metallic gray ironing board that dominated the space. The beige Sunbeam Select-O-Steam was set to the “cotton” setting, bubbling and gurgling in anticipation. Laid out before us was one of my stepfather’s church shirts—white, collared, with a single breast pocket, waiting to be transformed.
“Start with the yoke,” she instructed, as she pressed the iron against the broad strip of the shirt’s back, making the fabric smooth and bright. “Now you try,” she encouraged. I mimicked her, but the iron caught on some of the fabric, creating what she referred to as “cat faces”—those unsightly creases on an otherwise pristine garment.
With a frown, she guided my hand back over the wrinkled area, teaching me patience and precision. As we tackled the sleeves and collar, she mentioned, “Your Aunt Linda always uses dip starch.” It was a term unfamiliar to me, but I envisioned the old-fashioned liquid in a bottle, something I had never seen.
Fast forward twenty-five years, and I find myself in my own kitchen, preparing my work shirt for the day. My approach has shifted; I no longer follow my mother’s meticulous method. I start with the sleeves, flip the shirt quickly, steam the front, then the back, and give the collar a hasty press—if I have starch, I’ll use it; if not, it’s no big deal. As long as the wrinkles disappear, I’m satisfied. My technique is, perhaps, a reflection of my gender, and I can almost hear my mother’s disapproving sigh.
It’s not that I married someone who lacks these skills; rather, I’ve developed a personal obsession with achieving that perfectly smooth shirt before I tackle my daily tasks. Despite the rise of “wrinkle-free” fabrics, I insist on ironing my clothes—my way. Even as I engage in what my mother would call “a lick and a promise” on my blue Oxford shirt, I recall her lessons from that warm, inviting kitchen. The world may be chaotic, but thanks to my mother’s teachings, my attire remains a point of order amid the disarray.
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In summary, my early experiences with ironing, instilled by my mother, have shaped a lifelong habit that transcends mere fabric care. While my methods may have evolved, the underlying principles of diligence and precision remain ingrained in my routine.