To try to make myself feel better, I Google “Martha Stewart holiday disaster” to see if she’s ever shared any true tales of her day going horribly awry. I find plenty of homemaking nightmares, like cooking the plastic giblet bag inside the turkey, dropping tidal waves of caramel sauce, and setting the better part of the kitchen on fire. Of course, these stories come from others attempting to run the show Martha-style, and not Martha herself.
Then I’m struck with the notion that this wouldn’t have been a disaster for Martha, because she’d have plenty of freshly pressed tablecloths on hand. She’d clean up the spill, lay down a pristine new cloth, and never give it another thought. She wouldn’t ruminate, she wouldn’t dwell, she wouldn’t agonize, and she wouldn’t plot her husband’s early demise. This leads me to a new revelation in her Tao:
Wipe it up and suck it up. You’re fine; it’s fixed; move on.
So that’s what I do, and my pleasant mood returns.
Joanna, her girls, and her sister-in-law Karen arrive early to help, and I put them to work on Martha’s green bean–ham-and-cheese frittata and asparagus-Gruyère tart, respectively. I set out the ingredients for the Menning Mimosas and stock the lime-green beverage tub with a variety of berry-flavored LaCroix waters.
In starting this project, I tried to look at what Martha does from a macro point of view. What I’ve learned is that every aspect of her events makes sense. Her entertaining advice reminds me of a movie set—everything you see in a film must serve the purpose of advancing the story. Normally, if I knew I had children coming over, I’d buy ten million different soft drinks and juice boxes because I wasn’t sure of their favorites.
Now that I’ve dipped my toe into Martha’s world, I realize that an assortment of pretty, pink-canned, sugar-free sparkling waters makes much more sense than loading the kids up with nine million flavors of soda, because today’s really about the egg hunt. There’s no need to gild the lily, as it were, with a bunch of extraneous choices. In serving a set beverage menu, I can give the impression of having gone to more effort in planning than if I ran around buying everything. Less has truly become more.
As the kids arrive, they’re beyond delighted with the bucket-decorating station I’ve arranged in the kitchen. They’re close enough to the action for us to keep our eyes on them, but they’re so involved with their projects that they don’t mind having to wait to eat. Plus, this gives the parents time to sip their Menning Mimosas and visit with other grown-ups.
While all this is going on, Fletch, otherwise known as the Easter bunny, hides the eggs, going so far as to wear floppy ears. I love that he’s getting into the spirit, too.
Brunch is ready, and I tell the kids they have five minutes to finish their buckets. I walk the length of the table, admiring everyone’s handiwork, but I can’t quite get past all the artistry that’s gone into Wendy’s youngest daughter’s bucket. Even though she’s only seven, she’s applied her stickers with such style and panache that I’m blown away.
“My God, Wendy—did you see what Trixie did?” Her bucket is resplendently eclectic, with her name perfectly bracketed by equidistant spirals of bunnies, tulips, and crossed swords from the pirate sticker collection.
Wendy nods. “She’s amazing, right? That one’s going to pay to put me in the good home someday.”
The kids load up on Greek yogurt, fresh berries, and organic bacon, but they also dive into the frittata and asparagus tart. Yay for kids with adventurous palates! They eat well, but quickly, as they’re ready for the big dance.
Fletch positions himself on the front walk so he can capture everyone’s faces as they realize the bounty of candy waiting to be found. I think my final count, before I developed arthritis and had to stop, was about four hundred eggs. With eight kids—Wendy’s son couldn’t make it—I estimated they’d find two eggs per minute and that the hunt would last up to half an hour. I assumed they’d ooh and aah over each treasure and lovingly place their prizes in their buckets before moving on to search for the next location.
Yeah.
Way off on that.
The kids explode from the house like angry lions released from a cage. Their rabbit ears flop in the warm spring sun, their brows beetled with concentration and a thin sheen of sweat. They pounce on each pastel orb with the lawless abandon of Viking raiders, or options traders deep in the commodity market pits.
Don’t get me wrong; these are fine, fine children. I adore each and every one of them. I love how polite they are, always sending me handwritten thank-you notes after a day at the pool. They’re sweet and gentle, and I appreciate the way they respect my home and gingerly pet my jackass cats. Yet I’ve never before pitted them against one another Mad Max–style, so I guess I can’t be surprised by their intensity level.
When the first kid finds a dollar, all hell breaks loose, and my lovely spring garden party turns into game six of the 1996 Detroit Red Wings/Colorado Avalanche series. The kids are dragging one another to the boards and kneeing their competitors in the heads. I’m pretty sure I see a tooth fly by.
“But it’s just a dollar,” I comment, as parents do their best to referee the melee. “Why are they going ape shit over a buck? I mean, they’re children. What else could they possibly want to buy other than candy?”
Becca starts, “You’re kidding, right? Nintendo games, LEGOs, American Girl dolls—” But she has to tag out to keep one of her kids from high-sticking.
Wendy manages to say, “They want Barbies and craft projects and smartphones and e-readers and iPads,” before she has to warn one of her girls about the penalty box.
Joanna tells me, “Anna wants clothes, stuff to decorate her room, makeup, and nail polish. She likes to deposit money in her savings account, too.”
“I really had no idea,” I tell them. “All I wanted as a kid was candy. Had I known, I’d have emptied out my big change jar.”
With all the exertion from slam-dancing in the Easter mosh pit, one of the kids has an asthma attack, and the others, sensing his weakness, throw off their gloves so they can really fight.
And by the way?
The egg hunt lasts all of four minutes.
Candy Math—2.
Jen—0.
When the hunt is complete, all the kids return to my front steps to inspect their booty, while their parents dress their open wounds. And that is when I learn a very important lesson about what happens when the sun beats down on little pastel terrariums filled with treats possessing a very low melting point.
Also, judging from the husks of empty plastic shells and shiny wrappers at the edge of the wood line, squirrels have an affinity for miniature Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups.
I make note of that for next year.
Fortunately, I had the foresight to create additional bags of Easter treats for the kids so they have something to munch on while the contents of their found eggs solidify. The final candy weight count is about nineteen pounds. That should keep them in chocolate until my Halloween party.
As everyone has plans for later in the day, the party winds down after the hunt, and the house is empty and clean again by two p.m. Fletch and I retire to the TV room with a bottle of champagne and a carton of juice.
“For me, the best part wasn’t watching the kids. All the parents were so happy!” Fletch tells me as he hands me my glass. “Wendy was thrilled, because she says now she doesn’t have to do this before church tomorrow.”
“If I can pull off more events like this, I may just get her to forget the whole steak-knife thing.” I raise my glass and clink with Fletch’s. “Well, at least until she tries to teach me to sew.”
Despite the mishaps (Chuck Norris and Egg Assassin, I’m looking at you), I’m proud to have provided a fun day and the kind of happy memory that those kids will carry all the way to adulthood.
I’m less proud that a couple of the kids will also carry the scars.
Apparently, postparty, not one but TWO children had to go to the ER for Easter-related emerg
encies. One was for the asthma attack and the other was when one of the girls was so hopped up on chocolate that she thought she could fly and instead bashed into a coffee table. Stitches were involved.
Candy Math—3.
Jen—0.
Still, I delight in the fact that someday my friends’ grandkids will reap the benefit of what their children experienced today. And today, more than ever, I truly believe that I’ll be a happier person by discovering the Tao of Martha.
Well played, Martha.
Well played.
THE NEW GIRL(S)
“I can’t believe you’re leaving me alone with them.”
He grasps my arm for comfort and lets out a ragged breath.
I lift his hand and kiss the back of it, in hopes of comforting him with pure reason and rational thought. “I have to go on book tour, Fletch; it’s part of my job. You can do this.”
“But I’m afraid to be with them.”
“Don’t be afraid; you’ll manage them fine.”
Even though many would be terrified to step into my house because of the two pit bulls and massive black shepherd, that’s not what currently has Fletch’s pulse racing. These dogs are safe as kittens…unless you’re a ham sandwich. Nor does he fear taking care of Maisy by himself, as she’s doing so well right now. We just opened the pool and she happily christened it with the first lap of the season.
Maisy has bursts of energy that would be the envy of any dog, let alone one who’s ten years old and has had almost three years of chemotherapy, only to be hit with a second kind of cancer. When Maisy had her melanoma surgery, Fletch was all, “Congratulations, the dog beat you to skin cancer.” Now she’s supposed to wear a sun shirt on both ends when she’s outside, which will be the cutest thing ever.
Point? The dogs aren’t the issue. What Fletch is afraid of is the ten collective pounds of fury known as the New Girls.
“What do you want for your birthday?” Fletch had asked me last year.
“To adopt a black cat,” I replied.
Fletch didn’t even hesitate with his answer. “Never going to happen. What else is on your list?”
I crossed my arms and scowled. “Nothing. All I want is a cat.”
And that was true. My sole desire was to rescue a new kitty to add to our current menagerie, because I’d heard so many sad stories about family pets being abandoned in the economic downturn. We had time, space, and love to spare, so what was the big, hairy deal?
When my birthday finally arrived in November of 2011, I was spent. Not because of the pets, although we’d just rolled off of yet another stressful surgery for Maisy. She was fine, but I was exhausted, because I’d spent two months locked in my office working on Jeneration X. I was pale and haggard, in desperate need of a cut and color, a mani-pedi, a spray tan, and forty units of cosmetic fillers, stat. I didn’t feel like going out or having a party, because I looked like my own personal portrait of Dorian Gray. I didn’t even want any presents. My only desire entailed a quiet dinner featuring a filet with goat cheese and a balsamic vinegar reduction, followed by cake and the opportunity to catch up on a month of TiVo’ed fall television premieres.
Small dreams, people. Small dreams.
Fletch was in charge of dinner, which, coincidentally, you don’t have to be Martha to prepare. The filet requires a salt, pepper, and garlic rubdown, but the trick is to warm the meat to ninety-five degrees in the oven before pan-searing it. Doing so dries off the outside, which means the entire inside stays pink, yet allows the perimeter to form the most gorgeous char crust.
(Wait, I learned this trick from watching Martha. Oh, well.)
While the filet rests under a tent of tinfoil, top with a layer of goat cheese, which should be crisped until it’s golden. I normally pop the whole thing under the broiler for thirty seconds, or I use my little crème brûlée torch if I’ve remembered to refill the butane. Goes without saying, of course, that I almost never remember to refill the butane. But, really, who keeps excess butane on hand? What am I, a welder?
(Related note? Fletch wanted to buy a full-size blowtorch for our future brûlées, but as I don’t want to see our home reduced to a pile of smoking rubble, I put down my foot on this one.)
Anyway, back to my First Choice in Last Suppers—so, goat cheese on a filet is fine, but the step that turns the meal into magic is the balsamic vinegar reduction. The sweetness of the sauce contrasted with the creamy sourness of the cheese is nothing short of transcendent. Plus, the sauce is so easy to make, a helper monkey could do it.
I take four parts of high-quality balsamic and mix it with one part sugar. Placing the mix in a saucepan on low, I cook it down for twenty to thirty minutes. The key is constant whisking as it reduces, which would be especially easy for a monkey, as he could also stir with his tail.
Once the sauce is thick and syrupy, the bittersweet tang is the perfect complement for anything from roasted vegetables to ice cream.
Most recipes don’t mention this, but it’s important to understand the downside of making this miraculous elixir: reducing vinegar makes your house smell like feet.
For a week.
Also, without constant whisking, the sauce will overcook and then your house will smell like burned feet.
For a week.
Martha would say that this is the opposite of a good thing, particularly because that stench gets in the walls.
As Fletch cooked that fateful November day, I wandered in and out of the kitchen, one wary eye on the reduction. He promised me he was on top of it and continued to shoo me away.
I was down the hall watching something Real Housewife–based when I caught a whiff of the familiar trace of burned vinegar foot. In the time it took Fletch to pick out the wine, the sauce overheated and was ruined.
As we sat down to my unsauced steak, I felt an unbearable, yet completely unwarranted sense of sadness. My issue wasn’t the dinner. Fletch tried, and I love him for making the effort.
Rather, there’s something about finishing a book that leaves me feeling depressed. You’d think I’d be all celebratory and overjoyed to have the deadline off my back, but that’s never the case. When I turn in my manuscript, the absence of having that pressure feels like a loss. That’s why when people complete a marathon, they run past the finish line. The human body can’t handle the drop from one hundred to zero. For me, it’s always jarring to go from that which consumes my life to nothing with the sending of one e-mail attachment. Without a mental cooldown period, I’m left feeling like I have the worst case of PMS ever.
And it’s because of this that I started to cry while eating my stupid balsamic-free filet.
“Are you okay?” Fletch asked, voice full of concern.
“I’m fine,” I promised, sniffling into my napkin.
“Clearly you aren’t.”
“I just…I just…I just wanted my balsamic. That’s all I wanted for my birthday. I just wanted my stupid sauce.” And then I began to sob in earnest, not because I was sad, but because the book—and really the whole awful year—had been so stressful.
Fletch moved next to me and patted my hair. “Jen, I’m so sorry. I stopped stirring for a second; I swear. I can make more.”
“No, I’m just tired,” I wailed. “That’s it. I’m fine. I’m just tired.”
“What would make you feel better?”
“Nothing.”
“Do you want to go out to dinner?”
“NOOO! I can’t go out in public; I’m hideous.”
“Do you want your cake now instead?”
“No.”
“Do you want me to watch your stupid housewife show with you?”
“No. You’ll just make fun of it and then I’ll be even sadder.”
“True.” Then Fletch squared his shoulders and took some deep breaths, like he was wrestling with something internally. “Do…you want to go to the shelter tomorrow and pick out a new cat?”
I sat up straight and narrowed my gaze. “Do not toy with me
right now. I’m in no mood for toying.”
He looked right into my eyes. “I’m not toying with you. I’m serious. I’m giving in. You win. So, do you want to adopt a new cat tomorrow for your birthday?”
My tears stopped and I began to collect myself, suddenly forgetting all my monkey dreams. “I would love that. Thank you.”
“Good.” Then he gave me a big kiss and went back to his seat.
I began eating my filet with renewed vigor.
After a few seconds I said, “Hey, Fletch?”
He smiled at me. “Yeah?”
“We should adopt two.”
Here’s something Martha never tells you: Don’t go to an animal shelter and ask for the two hardest-to-adopt cats they have.
Because you’ll get the two hardest-to-adopt cats they have.
I’m not sure why I believed that I’d somehow be rewarded by requesting the cats most in need of a good home. Maybe I thought all the volunteers would be so moved by my compassion and bonhomie that they’d, in fact, point me to the two most awesome felines.
When we arrived at the shelter, we sat down with a volunteer and began to complete adoption forms. She’d handed me a clipboard with a stack of paper, and after I finished the first page, I turned to what I thought was the second.
“Are there more pages?” I asked, gesturing to the stack. “This is just the first sheet over and over.”
“No, no,” she assured me, “this is it.”
Huh. Turns out it’s way easier to get a shelter cat than a rescue-group pit bull. Libby’s adoption required six double-sided pages of essay questions, three character witnesses, and affidavits from Maisy’s oncologist, surgeon, hydrotherapist, and primary-care vet.
One would think that employing a canine oncologist, surgeon, hydrotherapist, and regular vet would exempt us from the home visits and interviews, but no. We had to run the whole gamut. At the shelter, we had to promise only that we wouldn’t use our new kitties as clay-pigeon substitutes when shooting skeet, like, if at all possible.