The Tao of Martha (7 page)

“Meaning?”

“Meaning that as I slowly begin to emulate her lifestyle, I’m coming to realize that Martha’s way of living is more than just the sum of all her advice. She’s more than plastic storage bins and tasty cupcakes and hand-hewn chicken coops. The Tao of Martha is a way of being. Like, it’s a bunch of different concepts and ways of doing things—
Living
, if you will—that coalesce into a path. And I believe that path will lead me to being happier. Anyway, Saturday, are you guys in or are you out?”

“I see. So, yeah, we’re in, and thanks for asking. The girls will be so excited. But…will you need me to bring anything? Possibly my fabric scissors?” Wendy asks.

She’s seriously never going to let me live that down.

“See you Saturday, smart-ass.”

I make three more hash marks on the pad next to the phone. I have to steady myself when I realize all the hash marks add up to sixteen. Whoa. I really didn’t think everyone would say yes, especially to such a last-minute invite.

Looks like I’m hosting a pre-Easter brunch and egg hunt for sixteen in two days.

Normally, this is when I’d bitch-panic, but I’ve got Saint Martha of Bedford on my side, and I’m filled with a beatific calm. Between Martha’s Web site, a stack of back issues of her magazines, and her book
Handmade Holiday Crafts:
225 Inspired Projects for Year-Round Celebrations
(fancy talk for crafting), I feel like I’ve already got a handle on this. At least in theory.

After reading up on Amy and Adam Forbes’s Easter in the April 2011 issue of
Living
, I decide that the kids will decorate Easter baskets while parents sip mimosas sprigged with fresh mint from my garden, during which time I’ll stock the buffet table. I’m serving protein-heavy dishes, because I don’t want my poor friends to have to drive home with nine children in the throes of Sugar Terrors.

After we eat, everyone will retire to the front lawn, whereupon the children will frolic in the grass, leisurely hunting for the eggs that I will so lovingly have stuffed myself.

Yes.

This is going to be
perfect.

At least, it had better be if I’m ever going to live down that whole steak-knife thing.

“I
’ll need to see your ID, ma’am.”

I’m here at Target, scanning the conveyor belt, trying to figure out what purchase might require identification. I already stocked up on champagne at the grocery store, so I’m at a bit of a loss. I’ve picked out a mountain of candy as well as tons of those little plastic eggs, but unless I use all of this to lure unsuspecting children into my panel van, I’ve committed no discernible crime.

I locate my license and hand it over. “Here you go.”

(Anytime I show someone my ID and they aren’t all, “You? Why, you can’t be in your forties!” I die a little inside.)

(So pretty much every time. Stupid thirty years of avoiding sunscreen.)

“Thank you,” the cashier says, handing back my license.

“What am I getting that makes you need this?” I’m not picking fights with strangers,
Fletcher.
I’m just really curious. Is there a limit on how many fun-size Snickers I can buy? Because I don’t want to live in that world.

The cashier gestures toward the two-pack of compressed air she’s just scanned. “For those.”

Huh?

“What do people do illegally with
compressed air
?”

The cashier gives me a weary sigh. “They inhale it.”

“Really? But it’s twenty bucks! For twenty bucks, people could buy a couple of liters of cheap vodka, cranberry juice, and a bag of chips and throw a party for their whole pledge class! Compressed air is a terrible return on investment. Also, I feel like there’s no better high than blowing all the crumbs and cat hair out of a keyboard. And why wouldn’t they
just pick up ten cans of aerosol whipped cream instead? I noticed they were on sale. Plus, you could serve shortcake before you tweaked.”

(Apologies to druggies if I’ve used the wrong word here.)

The cashier shrugs and continues to ring. Her salary likely doesn’t cover having to explain away my existential angst.

For the record, I’m buying compressed air only because I couldn’t find an ear syringe. I plan on hollowing out Easter eggs for decoration purposes. Per page eighty-one of the crafting book, the best way to blow out the yolk is with an ear aspirator, which I can’t find. I figure if Target doesn’t carry them, they no longer exist, because maybe ear aspirating has gone the way of medical leeching.

(Side note? All these years later, Target is still in my holy trinity of places to shop, only I’ve since replaced Trader Joe’s and IKEA with Whole Foods and Williams-Sonoma. Of course, the height of my Target obsession occurred when they briefly carried Origins, Kiehl’s, and Clarins products. That was, like, the best six-month period of my life. Except then all the boxes were eventually trussed up in antitheft devices, because people kept stealing them. I bet that’s why those lotions and potions aren’t there anymore. Too much trouble with all the locks and keys. Store management was probably all, “Yeah, we’ll secure cameras, computers, and iPads, but Creme de Corps? No.” So disappointing.)

(And thanks for taking away my ability to one-stop shop now, you stupid thieves with your supple skin and tiny pores.)

Anyway, the compressed air comes with that long, narrow straw that, in theory, will be the perfect size for really getting into the shell. This seems like a rather elegant solution, and when it works brilliantly, I plan to share this news with the folks at
Living
, because I’m that kind of magnanimous. Ooh, maybe draining Easter eggs will be my X factor?

I leave Target and head to Michaels, where I hope to find some variation of inexpensive Easter baskets. I make a major score when I discover stacks of pastel plastic buckets with attached shovels outside
the front door on sale for a dollar apiece! They’re plain, yet they look almost exactly like the ones I saw in Martha’s “Last-Minute Easter Ideas” section of the Web site, covered in cute, puffy stickers.

As this place is the Thunderdome for all things cute and puffy, I easily locate loads of Easter-themed stickers. I select a few sleeves of pirate stickers for Wendy’s son, who I suspect is attending less because he hopes to hunt for eggs and more because Joanna’s daughter Anna is freaking adorable. At the checkout line, I also grab a few packages of these sparkly little daisies, which I plan to spread across the tablecloth to make it extrafestive.

When I arrive home, Fletch offers running commentary on all my purchases as I unload.

“Fifteen pounds of candy? How many kids are coming again?”

“Nine.”

Fletch is incredulous. “You bought
fifteen pounds of candy
for nine little kids?”

I frown. “Is that not enough?”

He snickers. “You do candy math like you do drinks math.” At the holiday dinner party, I budgeted three bottles of wine per guest, which is apparently two and a half bottles too many, unless Fletch wanted to drive everyone home.

Moving on to the grocery bags, he says, “What’s with all the discount eggs? Are you planning on avenging your honor at the Sig Ep house?”

I actually feel bad for purchasing cheap eggs, because I’ve used only certified-humane products since January. I tried becoming a pescatarian after the New Year, figuring I could use Martha’s recipes to learn how to cook fish. Everything was going beautifully until I ate some bad sea bass, and now I can barely even look at anything with fins. So my compromise is buying meat that’s pasture-raised and humanely processed whenever possible.

The eggs we normally choose are free-range, and the chickens are raised on a sustainable farm and fed a diet of vegetarian whole grains without hormones or antibiotics. For the price, I wouldn’t be surprised if the chickens all have their own iPhones and Pottery Barn bedding, too. In fact, the label shows the farmer hugging his hens, so you know they’re spoiled rotten. But at five bucks a dozen, especially when I’m dumping the actual contents down the sink? Sorry, no hugs for you, sweatshop chicken.

“We’re decorating eggs tonight,” I tell him. “We’re going to marbleize some and do designs on other ones with a wax pencil. Well, actually, I couldn’t find a wax pencil, and the craft store kind of creeped me out. Seriously, you’ve never seen so much glitter in one place outside of a Ke$ha concert. I grabbed crayons instead, because I figure it’s the same thing, right? Anyway, I bought discount eggs in case we break a few. The cute bunny centerpiece I ordered on eBay holds twenty-four, and I figure we might lose a few in the process, hence the extra.”

“Sounds reasonable. When are we starting?”

“As soon as I finish stuffing these plastic eggs. Shouldn’t take me long.”

T
hree hours later, my hands are cramped and gnarled and I kind of never want to smell chocolate again. I’d planned on supplementing some of the eggs with a bunch of dollar bills, but I had only three of them in my purse, and coins seemed kind of chintzy. Plus, I really need the eggs for all the candy, and what are little kids going to do with a handful of singles anyway? Hit a prepubescent strip club? So I placed a single dollar in each of three eggs and figure it’s going to be fine.

My pile of stuffed eggs is borderline towering. There are so many of them! Then I begin to wonder if making kids hunt for this many eggs is less “fun” and more of a “violation of stringent child labor laws.”

Also?

Candy Math—1.

Jen—0.

“W
e’re boiling these?” Fletch asks, gesturing toward the tower of egg crates in front of him.

“Nope, no need. We’re going to hollow them out,” I reply. “We’re supposed to take a craft knife and poke holes in either end, then stab the contents to break the yolk, blow out the innards, and presto! They’re the perfect blank canvas!”

The dogs surround our workspace, because they believe that what we’re doing is food-based and, damn it, they want in. Loki and Libby love eggs, but Maisy has always turned up her nose at them. Like eggs offend her delicate sensibilities. How can this be? She’s a
dog
; this is actually the kind of shit she’d forage for in the wild. I could see how she wouldn’t eat apples or carrots or green beans (three of her favorites), but to snort in disgust every time I offer her a bite of my omelet? I don’t get it.

Of course, it’s pretty much Maisy’s world around here, so it’s not unusual to see her wolfing down beautiful dinners of Tiki Dog Kauai Luau with whole prawns while I have canned tomato soup. But if she’s happy, I’m happy, so it all works out.

The dogs nudge each other for purchase while I assemble Fletch’s supplies, which include a paring knife, a paper clip, and a can of compressed air. He curls his lip at my offerings, because he never trusts me to
use the right tools for the job. I mean, yes, I understand he’s the kind of man who has seven different kinds of hammers in his workshop, but it’s all the way downstairs, and sometimes the heel of a loafer works just as well in driving a nail.