In the summer of 1988, I found myself in the kitchen with my mother, who was preparing to teach me an essential life skill. “You never know if you’ll end up with someone who can’t do this,” she remarked, rolling her eyes slightly. “No one teaches it anymore.” At 12 years old, I was about to embark on a journey that would shape my daily routine for decades to come.
As we stood side by side at the ironing board, she had already set her trusty beige Sunbeam Select-O-Steam to the “cotton” setting. The steam hissed eagerly, ready to tackle the task at hand. Before us lay one of my stepfather’s white church shirts, pristine yet wrinkled, waiting for our attention. She lightly misted it with starch, instructing, “Always start with the yoke.” I watched intently as she expertly glided the iron across the back of the shirt, transforming it from crumpled to smooth with each press.
“Now it’s your turn,” she said, handing me the iron. I fumbled a bit, causing the fabric to bunch up—a mistake she called “cat faces.” With her guidance, I learned the art of pressing sleeves, collars, and panels, all while absorbing her little tips, like how my Aunt Clara preferred dip starch instead of the spray we used.
Fast forward twenty-five years, and I find myself in my own kitchen, preparing for the day ahead. My technique is decidedly less meticulous than my mother’s; I start with the sleeves and rush through the rest, focusing on the essentials. A quick pass over the collar and pocket, and if there’s starch handy, I’ll use it—if not, no big deal. As long as the wrinkles disappear, I’m satisfied. It’s a rather masculine approach, I suppose, and I can already hear my mom’s disapproving sigh.
It’s not that I married someone who can’t iron; rather, I’ve developed a peculiar obsession with achieving that perfectly smooth finish. In an age where “iron-free” clothing is the norm, I still cling to the notion of ironing my clothes, a habit ingrained in me from those summer afternoons spent with my mother. As I perform my own version of her method on my blue Oxford shirt, I fondly recall her teachings, even in a world that often feels chaotic. Thanks to her, I have a little slice of order in my life, and that’s something I cherish.
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In summary, my passion for ironing is a quirky inheritance from my mother, a testament to the values she instilled in me. While my method may differ from hers, the underlying appreciation for precision and care remains a significant part of my daily life.
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