Darling wrinkled ones!
Lela comments thusly,
Somewhat related: I buy unscented laundry detergent and add a few drops of lavender oil to that. You’re right; the lovely and soothing scent lingers in a marvelous way. I’ve just moved to a much smaller place and haven’t figured out how ironing will happen. It might be in my basement which I’m sure won’t encourage me…
Lela, I should have mentioned that because I hate ironing so much and will use any excuse at all to avoid it, I bought myself an over-the-door ironing board that doesn’t require dragging a big board out of a closet. All I need do is move a little chair over and plug in my iron, grab my spritz bottle of rose water and use one hand to pull down the board. I may have an ironing board somewhere for tablecloths and bigger linens but I moved two years ago, so who knows? I probably divested myself of it.
Happy wrinkle removal!
I just bought one of those over-the-door ironing board/iron holders and love it! My laundry room is off my back porch, so I love my backyard view of my bee hive while ironing. 🙂
My ironing board is permanently set up in my basement, at the corner of my gym area. I iron as I pull my clothes off the fold-out dryer I have next to my washing machine (I only machine dry sheets, towels, and socks). So much easier than facing a giant pile of back-logged laundry AND possible to touch-up slightly wrinkled clothes I pull from the closet. But how lovely would it be to look out upon a beehive with Pastor Tera?! Anyway, I agree with PB: ironing is critical to looking crisp and professional. Think of it as contemplative time, like dish-washing. Here’s a favorite poem for all you ironers out there:
Linens
In the long dim room
where perfume floated on
summer’s heavy air,
my mother taught me to iron.
The damp linens, rolled in a towel,
napkins overlapped,
emerged formless, limp.
Her hands, tanned and freckled,
pulled the cloth into shape,
used the hissing dragon tool
to press straight lines,
sharp, square corners.
She ironed and smoothed and folded until
each piece of cloth was as sweet and neat
as the petals of a daisy.
My mother taught me this:
how a seam is snapped,
how to hold material taut
with weight and pressure
and edge a perfect line;
how to push away faint lines,
remaining wrinkles;
to use quiet hands to fold and shape
a lovely plump triangle
ready to hold against moistened lips.
I cannot take disheveled life
and lay it out on a sheeted board,
square the corners,
snap the seams straight,
but at times I can, as if wielding an iron,
make a place in the center
completely smooth,
where, with closed eyes, I place my lips.
– Ann Pinkerton McPhail