The gray fan is doing a mediocre job of keeping me cool in this windowless, though adorable, kitchen. The dishes have been done. The trash has been taken out. I’ve found a spot for my toothbrush in the bathroom.

My “Not For Tourists Guide to New York City 2010″ is sitting on the kitchen table, along with my newly acquired copy of “When You Are Engulfed in Flames” (not my favorite Sedaris).

My cream apron with red trim and a 50′s print of various  red and yellow kitchen appliances (including a smiling stove) hangs from a hook on the fridge. The first apron I ever owned, purchased for me by my mom, on a Cambridge outing three years ago, just after becoming vegetarian. Cooking seemed a logical next step in the journey, and no cooking adventure seemed complete without an adorable apron to accompany.

The night I brought the apron home I just so happened to have thai leftovers that needed eating, but I put the apron on anyways. Lauren and Anson seemed confused as I put the apron over my head, tied a bow in the back, and placed the white to-go box into the microwave.

“I just really wanted to wear it.”

The next night I made vegan tacos for everyone.

The apron hung in the walk-in pantry filled with cereal and crackers at Belknap Street in Somerville. (It’s been so long, I can’t even remember the exact street address)

It had some fun nights on the third floor of the big white house at 51 Congress Street in Portland. During Salt there were near weekly cupcake and champagne parties. It was winter, and Liz and I stayed warm making batches and batches of vegan cupcakes, while Zachary played the cello in the background  and Tommy photographed every moment of the party.

There was always too much frosting. Why do frosting recipes always make enough for eight batches? Who’s making eight batches of cupcakes at once?

The apron hung in a red kitchen with lots of plants on Dow Street in Portland. That kitchen had so much character. Becca and I bonded during our attempt at apple crisp. We drank glasses of red wine and shared stories. We tasted it and knew something was missing. We figured out what that missing piece was, and the polaroid titled, “Something’s missing” is still hidden away in a box somewhere in my new bedroom.

The apron now hangs on the white fridge at 115 Diamond Street in Brooklyn.

How many more apartments will that apron see?

How many more places will I bake vegan cupcakes wearing it?

Which will feel the most like home?

New beginnings are wonderful, and sometimes quite necessary, but I still end up carrying around a 50′s print apron, trying to figure out the correct spot in a new place where it will fit and tracing back every memory tied to it.

The first month or so in any new place I am perpetually tracing back my steps. How did I end up in this little apartment? In this city? With these light pine cabinets with the funny little panels of stained glass. And the white tea pot. And coybow boot salt and pepper shakers. And no windows. But with light from the adjacent bedrooms.

Here I am. Here I am.

And there’s the apron.

When it’s not 95 degrees in here I’ll make a batch of cookies and cream cupcakes. And eat leftover frosting for the following week with pretzels.