Being married to a woman who is Polish through-and-through means that food is important in life. It’s not something to be squeezed in, willy-nilly, whenever, and it’s not something that can be simply plopped out of a can or popped in the microwave. It’s something that requires preparation, time, and patience.

For example, if a certain little girl would like to have chicken nuggets for dinner, that’s fine. But a Polish woman will not be pulling a package of milled and breaded chicken odds-and-ends out of the freezer. From time to time, something like that is fine, perhaps a couple as a snack. For dinner, however, only real chicken will suffice.

And this requires time, and an apron.

Truth be told, the apron is something in the Polish genetic make-up, I believe. Babcia, in Poland, slips on an apron every morning as habitually as I slip on socks or a shirt. It’s simply another article of clothing, and it stays on all day, whether cooking, cleaning, or taking a break. (It comes off when heading out into public, of course.)

But the results of aproned cooking — who could possibly complain?