The savory scent of soy sauce and tangy hints of fresh ginger filled the air as I stir-fried chicken into golden decadence. The sizzles and pops of peanut oil were music to my ears. Indeed, the finished product did not disappoint my tastebuds, either.
But to my dismay, I later realized that the delightful peanut oil had splattered onto my shirt, leaving stubborn stains that wouldn't wash out. This would certainly be a meal I wouldn't soon forget.
"Okay," I admitted to myself, "I guess aprons exist for a reason." I had an apron lying around that I had handmade when I was 12, but let's just say my taste has changed since then. Picture green awning fabric (it was on sale). I figured it was time for an upgrade. I wanted to design a kitchen apron that was functional, minimal, and feminine. Cue the sketching.
Before I went to Japan, I thought I was a bit of a perfectionist. But during my first summer in Kyoto, when my conversation partner pulled out her agenda to pencil in our next session in minuscule handwriting that only a mouse could read, I realized I had a long way to go.