It’s
taken me about three afternoons to catch up with ironing all the sheets and
pillowcases I’ve washed following visits by two different house guests, plus
those off my own bed. My fault, of course, for letting the pile build up. It
wouldn’t be such a hardship if I didn’t loathe ironing so much.
But
I do, Blanche, I do.
Ironing
is one of those tasks Francesco merrily pursues, perverse man as he is, in
return for hardly ever having to wash a pot, pan, glass, or dish. He also does
the laundry and doesn’t seem to mind hanging things out to dry. I hate the
whole business and can’t wait until he returns, for this among other less
mundane reasons.
I
recall my mother hating ironing too – she sent all the sheets out to be
laundered and they came back neatly packaged, crisp and fresh. Oh, for a
service like that these days, and in these parts.
But
lacking that, it is my bad fortune at the moment to keep up with ironing – a
task made more difficult by the fact that we have a mania for buying exquisite
antique linens that the average French person seems content to happily pitch,
even if they did belong to and were probably hand-embroidered by their grandmere.
The
French tradition was to stitch one’s initials in the center of the top, and
many of these designs are true works of embroidery art. You can pick these up
in flea markets for practically nothing, even much less than a set of new
sheets might cost at the local supermarket.
They
are beautiful to look at and make you feel like royalty when you slip under
your covers; there’s nothing like linen and/or pure cotton to feel cool in
summer months, warm and comfy in colder temps. But they are hell to launder and
iron – the tyranny of sheets.
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