The Tao of Martha (9 page)

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 emergencies. 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.

T
HE
N
EW
G
IRL(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.