The Tao of Martha (44 page)

And I will laugh and laugh and laugh.

C
hristmas is not going to sneak up on me like that asshole Thanksgiving did. I plan to be ready. So, in the next week, I need to prepare a spot for the tree, decorate the mantels, and handcraft some ornaments. I wasn’t kidding about glittering the shit out of this Christmas.

I also want to get a jump start on my holiday baking. Unfortunately (for my pants) all the toffee is gone, so I’ve got to relive that goat rodeo as well as figure out what else I want to bake.

I’ve finally been able to transition all my baking supplies to the butler’s pantry and the ingredients are fairly organized. The last step in this arduous journey is making it pretty. Are aesthetics necessary? Of course
not. But putting everything in matching, hermetically sealed jars is so in Martha’s wheelhouse that I can’t not do this.

I ballpark exactly how many containers I’m going to need and then I head to the Container Store. Honestly, I haven’t been in one of these places for years. I always thought their merchandise was overpriced and superfluous. Of course, the last time I was here, I thought dressers and silverware racks were superfluous, so it’s definitely been a while.

As I stroll the aisles, I find a million useful items, such as attractive yet sturdy boxes in which to ship my hand-knitted scarves, and adorable gingham waxed paper for lining holiday treat containers. Everything I pass suddenly seems useful to living a more orderly life, and my cart quickly fills. I keep saying to myself, “Do people know about this place?”

I find a whole bunch of simple jars with rubber seals and I pick out sizes that range from sixteen ounces to five quarts. I make sure to grab a few extras, because I suspect once I start putting ingredients in jars, I’m not going to want to stop.

I’m in such a state of excitement when I get to the cash register that I accost the clerk. “I found the best stuff!” I squeal. “Tell me, do people know how awesome this place is?”

She points to the fifteen people who’ve stacked up in line behind me. “I suspect so.”

My total’s less than I’d even budgeted, as some of the smaller jars are only two dollars. Plus, when the rubber seals on these things fall apart, they’re easily replaced, so I anticipate keeping them indefinitely.

Once home, I wash and dry the jars. Then I systematically transfer the contents from bags and boxes to matching jars. I immediately apply the labels, because there’s no way I could determine which is the self-rising flour and which is all-purpose just by sight.

As I fill and organize, I also get a good idea for what my cabinet is missing. For example, I have white, semisweet, and milk-chocolate chips, but no dark chocolate. I keep track of new needs as I continue.

I have to laugh when I come to my container of milk powder. When I made pies to bring to Joanna’s house for Thanksgiving, I discovered I required said ingredient, but I had no clue as to what it was. The last thing I wanted to do was to hit the grocery store in search of an esoteric item the night before Thanksgiving. Then I Googled it and found that’s just the foodie way to say powdered milk. I’ve never been more pleased with myself when I realized I had a whole storehouse of milk powder in my prepping basement. Ha!

Jen—1

Apocalypse—0

From start to finish, I complete my project in just under two hours. Unless you count the six months it took to get everything to this state.

But overall? I’d say this was time well spent.

I
live in mortal fear of a Christmas tree fire, so I’m never going to be one of those people strapping a fir to the top of the station wagon on the day after Thanksgiving. In the Big Book of What-if that is my
thought process, the optimum day to buy a tree is December 10. It’s not so late in the season that only Charlie Brown trees are left, but it’s close enough to Christmas that retailers are on their second and third shipments; ergo, the trees are more freshly cut.

I’d originally bookmarked a place in the Chicago area where we could chop down our own Christmas tree, but since they wouldn’t let Fletch bring his own chain saw, he wanted no part. Instead, we head to Pasquesi’s.

“How tall are our ceilings?” Fletch asks. I grab a cart at the entrance because I want to pick up some potpourri and dog food while we’re here.

“You don’t remember this conversation from two years ago?” I ask as we walk past the ornaments display.

“Nope.”

“Then let me remind you—you guesstimated they were twelve feet high and it turns out we were off by a yard. Don’t you recall how we had to hack off a good two feet, and the top branch was all bent over where it touched the ceiling because it was still too tall?”

“That doesn’t sound like something I’d do.” He zips up his coat as we approach the greenhouse where the trees are displayed.

“I know! You measure everything! So when you said twelve feet, I was all, ‘Twelve feet must be shorter than I thought.’ I didn’t second-guess you at all because you’re always so precise. And for once, the person bringing inappropriately sized stuff into the house was you.
That
was satisfying.”

“I don’t recall.”

“Well, it was traumatic for you, so I’m sure you blocked it from your memory. Okay, we’re here; how do we do this?” The way Pasquesi’s has the trees on display is so smart. Instead of having them all netted and stacked up, each tree is hanging from a line connected to the ceiling. So
buyers can not only visualize how full or sparse the whole tree may be—they can see how straight the trunk is.

I quickly locate a staffer. “Hi, excuse me, can you please tell me where the eight-foot trees are?”

“Of course,” the friendly clerk replies. “All the eight-footers are in this row, over here are the seven, and beyond that are the six. The ones above eight feet are outside.”

“Thank you!”

In terms of selecting the perfect tree, my standards are fairly low. As long as it’s not too flammable and it’s relatively symmetrical, I’m all set. I cruise down the row of hanging eight-footers, spin a couple of them around, and determine that any one of them would be perfect.

“Here, Fletch, this one’s a keeper.” I gesture toward a stout green Fraser fir. “Smells really fresh, too.”

Fletch casts a discerning eye. “No, not this one. I don’t like the trunk. It lists to the right.”

“Oh. Didn’t notice. Then how about this guy next to it.”

He gives it a thorough once-over. “Nope. This isn’t it. I don’t care for this bare spot.”

“But the hole is tiny and the rest of it’s so lush. Couldn’t this part face the wall?”

“No. It’s just not right.”

I shrug. “Whatever.” I peruse for a couple of minutes and then say, “Here’s a nice, full one on the end.”

“Hmm.” He paces around the tree and then gives it a spin. “I get the feeling everyone’s touched this one.”

“I have no idea what that means.”

“It’s on the end. Everyone who’s gone by has touched it. It’s been
handled
.” He scrunches up his face and wriggles his fingers when he says this.

I nod. “So you know, you sound like a crazy person. For the record. Just putting it out there.”

We go on like this as we inspect every tree in the row, all of which leave Fletch wanting. At this point, I’ve had enough. “Here’s what’s going to happen, Fletch. I’m cold, so I’m going to humor you for the next five minutes, and then I’m going inside to shop for potpourri. If you want my input in the next five minutes, I’m here for you. After that, this is all on you, because I lost the ability to care once my fingers went numb.”

After eighteen years, I should remember I’m married to the King of Overcomplication. Right before we got married, I wanted to register for new bedding, as the dogs had pretty much destroyed what we’d been using. We went to a dozen stores and Fletch took issue with every single comforter I liked. Exasperated, I finally said, “Please tell me what’s so awesome about the one we have so I can replace it with something identical,” to which he replied, “I can’t really remember what it looks like.” So I picked the one I liked in the first place and he never noticed the difference.

“I just don’t
connect
with anything in this row. None of these are the appropriate vehicle for our Christmas.”

“But they’re all perfect! And they’re all the same damn thing!”

“I’ll know it when I see it.”

I tap my watch with a gloved, yet still-frozen digit. “Tick, tick, tick, four minutes.”

We peruse some more and finally Fletch says, “Hey, I think I found one!” He’s now a row over from where we were looking.

“Those are seven feet,” I remind him. “If that’s the size you want, fine, but they’re seven feet.”

“Yeah, but they seem taller than the eight-foot trees.”

“No, they don’t. They seem like they’re seven feet. They seem like they’re a foot shorter than the eight-footers; hence the placement in the seven-foot row.”

He’s resolute. “I’m pretty sure this is taller.”

“Going to buy potpourri now. Lemme know how this all works out for you.”

Twenty minutes later, Fletch finds me sniffing diffusers. “Here,” I say. “Smell these.” I stick a bamboo-scented bottle under his nose, followed by orange verbena.

“I like the first one,” he says, gesturing to the bamboo bottle.

“Orange verbena it is. You find us a tree?”

“Yep, and it’s perfect. They’re giving it a fresh cut and wrapping it up. Once we check out, we pull around to the side and they’ll tie it to the car.”

“Excellent.”

Transaction complete, we head home. Even though we live only a couple of miles from the nursery, that’s a long enough ride for us to completely forget the eight-foot fir on the top of the roof, which we discover only once we try to pull into the garage.

If shame had a sound, it would be the scrape of branches against an unyielding garage door, followed by the unremitting braying of a jackass.

After I finish laughing myself into an asthma attack, I say, “Maybe this is one of those bad-luck trees, like the one that split a couple of years ago. Or, oh, remember the one in Bucktown that got so wide we couldn’t even walk past it?”

“That won’t happen, because I bought the very best tree on the lot.”

“You finally found an eight-footer you liked?”

His face is lit by the dashboard when he turns to look at me. “No, I went with one of the seven-foot ones because they were taller.”

“Okay, your call. I abdicated from the decision-making process and I’m fine with that. But if at any point you decide this tree is too short, I’m allowed to do the I Was Right dance.”

“Deal.” Fletch takes my gloved hand and we shake on it.