The Tao of Martha: My Year of LIVING

by Jen Lancaster

  Mainly, though, I’m leery of economic problems, at the macro and micro levels. I worry about the country’s finances as well as my household’s. Go broke once and I promise you will never forget it. That memory is always right there, looming on the edge of my consciousness.

  Ergo, there are a dozen excellent reasons to lay in a few supplies, particularly as this project seems so Martha-esque. Martha’s previously detailed the specifics both in print and on video on packing an emergency evacuation bag, as well as tips on readying a first-aid kit.

  Even Martha’s adorable French bulldogs, Francesca and Sharkey, have gotten in on the act, using their blog to advise pet owners on how to keep animals safe in inclement weather. Prior to Hurricane Irene, Martha posted photos on her blog about tying up wisteria vines. My assumption is that if she has time to worry about wisteria, then she’s got the basics like food and water down cold. I have to assume that variations on prepping are at the top of her mind, even if I can’t find a specific Living piece on exactly what supplies I need to shelter-in-place.

  Wait a minute. This is it!

  This is my X factor!

  I’m going to pursue emergency preparedness as my super-extra-credit Martha project. And I’ll have Fletch help…even if having him do so confirms that he was right about the zombies the whole time.

  Argh.

  I guarantee that the basement in Bedford is stocked to the rafters with beautiful beets and gorgeous green beans and zaftig zucchini, all harvested and stored at the peak of freshness, because Martha’s perpetually featuring canning recipes and techniques.

  Maybe she’s been so diligent about canning because she fears nuclear winter, or maybe it’s just because this was a great year for apples and tomatoes and she’s a huge proponent of seasonal produce. (FYI, she even offers free canning label templates on her Web site, and they are supercute.) In her book Whateverland, daughter Alexis dishes on how Martha hates to get rid of anything, so I guarantee that if she’s in her kitchen filming a segment about canning, then those items will be stored, rather than pitched.

  Regardless, the specific reason she might keep extra canned goods on hand is not important; that I believe with my whole heart that they exist is what’s key here.

  However, the idea of putting up my own fruit and veg scares me. So many things can go wrong, from an exploding pressure cooker to botulism stemming from improperly sterilized tools. The act of canning seems a clear and present danger far more than anything zombie-related. Also? See: Failure, My Garden, 2011–2012. I don’t have any fresh produce to can; even the frozen bananas are gone now.

  This is going to require some research.

  Four highly productive weeks of prepping later, I’m at lunch with the girls.

  “You guys hear about the storm that’s supposed to hit New York? I wonder if it’ll impact our trip to Philly?” I ask.

  Every year when Stacey’s new book comes out, she sponsors a preorder contest that culminates in the two of us heading to a different city to take a reader and his or her best friend to lunch. Last year, we visited Dallas, where I learned an important lesson on why to never request that the stylist make your hair “big” while in Texas. This year’s winner lives in Philadelphia, and we’re going there week after next. (Shout-out to Jon!)

  “I’m sure we’ll have no trouble. This hurricane will be like Irene,” Stacey says. “Everyone will panic and sandbag the hell out of the entrances to all the Starbucks and then it’ll be nothing.”

  “I don’t know,” Tracey counters. Tracey is totally Team Fletch when it comes to disasters potentially leading to zombie wars. “What if it’s not? They’re calling it a superstorm.”

  “No, they’re calling it a Frankenstorm, and now I can’t stop saying that word. Frankenstorm, Frankenstorm, Frankenstorm. I even said Frankenstorm in a dream last night,” I add. “Frankenstorm is supposed to turn the whole East Coast ass-over-teakettle. Read all about it on WeatherChannel.com.”

  Stacey’s unmoved by my prowess in meteorology. (She’s previously been unmoved by my prowess in practicing medicine, stating that a broadband connection to WebMD doesn’t mean I’m a doctor.) (No free diagnosis for you, then!)

  “Philly will be fine and New York will be fine,” Stacey assures me. She practically pats me on the head as she says it.

  “You know, Karyn told me when she lived in Brooklyn, she had a hard time getting renter’s insurance because of hurricanes,” I say. “She was all, ‘But this is New York—we don’t have hurricanes.’ Then I said to her, ‘Doesn’t Brooklyn sit right on the ocean? Wouldn’t it stand to reason that could be a strike zone?’ She said the beach was a mile away, but it was a shitty beach, so it never really occurred to her that she could be impacted.”

  “God, I love Karyn,” Gina says. “You talked to her lately?”

  “Actually, Karyn and I e-mailed all day yesterday because I showed her this.” I gesture to the photo on my phone.

  Tracey squints at the small screen. “Is this your basement?”

  I can’t suppress my enormous grin or overwhelming sense of pride. “Indeed this is my basement, which is no longer just a repository for old Rollerblades and a place for dogs to poop. Check out my emergency readiness, bitches.”

  The photo does no justice to what’s currently happening on the eight-foot-long span of shelves at the bottom of the stairs. I’ve been systematically snapping up and storing emergency food supplies.

  What I’m doing looks like hoarding, but would a hoarder have an impeccably organized stash of two months’ worth of emergency rations?

  Would a hoarder make sure she not only had shelf-stable regular milk (white and chocolate), but also soy milk, evaporated milk, sweetened condensed milk, and powdered milk?

  Would a hoarder find and buy not only canned tuna, but also canned salmon, canned beef, canned turkey, canned chicken, canned ham, and canned bacon? (That’s right. Canned bacon. It’s a real thing.)

  Would a hoarder keep a dozen cans of brown bread so her twelve jars of peanut butter, six jars of marshmallow fluff, three quarts of jelly, and industrial-size jar of Nutella wouldn’t have to be eaten by the spoonful? (Note: I have no issue with eating Nutella by the spoonful.)

  Okay, a hoarder might well have all these items, but she likely wouldn’t shelve them all lined up, labels out, by classifications such as “pasta” and “canned fruit” and “soups/chilis.” She damn sure wouldn’t keep them all organized on a spreadsheet by expiration date for proper stock rotation, either.

  I started by purchasing a case of Beefaroni because it could—at least according to my experience coming home drunk from the bars in college—be eaten directly out of the can. I also bought a couple of cases of vegetables and tuna, and I figured that was an excellent start. After all, I wasn’t going to become one of those lunatics I watch on TV, right? It’s not like I’m stocking up on bullets for the cats.

  Then I started researching how to create an emergency pantry, and I fell down the prepper rabbit hole when I realized exactly how woefully unprepared I was. Not only did I not have an nth of what I needed in emergency food stocks. I’d completely overlooked nonedible supplies, like those related to health and hygiene and cleaning. I found extensive lists about what items are most likely to disappear after a disaster. I assumed that there’d be a run on batteries and candles, but did you know that in post-Katrina New Orleans it was almost impossible to find stuff like writing paper and garden seeds and aluminum foil (for hats?) and dog food? I sure didn’t.

  The more I read, the more I exercised the “buy now with 1-Click” option on Amazon, and my UPS guy is starting to get suspicious about all the clanking boxes full of heavy metal stuff every day.

  And now?

  Well, let’s just say that I’m ready for Frankenstorm, even if I do live a thousand miles away from the ocean. Also? I have a new respect for the participants I see on the show.

  Except for the cat killer.

  She’s still a jerk.

&nb
sp; “Funny, I can’t recall an instance of Martha going all doomsday,” Stacey says. “Is she crocheting gas masks? Perhaps providing tips on elegantly appointing your bomb shelter? This can’t possibly dovetail into your project.”

  “Au contraire,” I reply. “Martha has actually done numerous shows about prepping. Look it up.”

  This is a lie, but it feels true.

  Stacey’s not convinced by my explanation, yet she does stop directly pursuing the Martha argument. She peers at the photo. “What are all these tiny boxes on the right side of the shelf?”

  I tell her, “Sardines.”

  “You hate sardines,” she says.

  I shake my head and cross my arms. “Not true.”

  “Pfft, absolutely true. When you used sardines to lure the Thundercats back home last summer, I clearly remember you almost horking when you got sardine juice on your hand.”

  Ooh, she’s got me with her legal mumbo jumbo.

  “Well, sort of true,” I admit. “But I don’t hate sardines if there’s no other source of food. See, my plan was to buy stuff that’s cheap and protein-packed, but not so tempting that I’ll want to wander down to the basement while on an Ambien bender. Also, this is a source of food for the cats, too. According to the Internet, sardines are a must-have in any competent prepper’s pantry.”

  “According to the Internet, Elvis is alive and well and working at a Krispy Kreme in Michigan,” Stacey argues.

  “The King did love his doughnuts,” Tracey reasons. “I’m really impressed with your stash, Jen.”

  “Thank you. Then my sardines are your sardines and you’re welcome in my bunker,” I assure her.

  Stacey simply rolls her eyes.

  “Is there wine in your bunker?” Gina asks.

  I nod. “Plenty. We have something like thirty bottles left over from our anniversary party.”

  “Then I’m in, too,” Gina says.

  “I’ve also stocked up on various inexpensive vodkas and tequila for bartering and fuel,” I admit. “Between my booze cache and sardine surplus, I plan on making my fortune on the black market when the balloon goes up.”

  “You let me know how that works out for you.” Stacey snorts.

  The smug is strong in this one.

  “Oh, really? Okay, then—if Frankenstorm knocks us on our asses or if the Huns invade Chicago or something and you’re like, ‘Jen, Jen, we’re starving. Can we come to your house?’ I’m going to be all, ‘Sardines aren’t so funny now, are they?’”

  “I promise to apologize to your sardines if the Huns invade,” Stacey assures me.

  “Fine. Then you can share my sardines when the time comes,” I concede.

  But she’s not having any of my Pop-Tarts stash.

  That’s for damn sure.

  Frankenstorm, now known as Hurricane Sandy, doesn’t impact our trip to Philly, but the nor’easter that follows it does, and now we won’t make it to Philly until next year. In the storm, Karyn’s old hurricane-proof neighborhood is slammed, as is so much of the rest of New York and New Jersey.

  I don’t have anything funny to say about the hurricane or its aftermath. There’s no feeling of impotence greater than sitting on a basement full of bounty with no way to directly share it with those in need. Fortunately, some industrious Brooklyn residents found a way to set up Amazon registries so donors could send items directly to those in need. (The item I donated the most? Ironically, new underwear.)

  The scope and breadth of the storm, coupled with the government’s inability to quickly aid the affected, has caused me to redouble my efforts in terms of prepping. The concept of “having enough” is so important to me, and the act of stockpiling has been a huge mood elevator. Every time UPS drops off a box, I feel like I’m taking a positive step to ensure our futures. Back in the Bitter days, we had an inkling of what it was like to want for basic needs, and I vowed that was the last time this would happen.

  I will never be caught without my pants on again.

  (Underpants, either.)

  GOBBLE, GOBBLE

  “Lemme see.…” I glance down at the packing checklist. “Ah, in this box, we should have almond milk, coconut milk, powdered heavy cream, and powdered butter.”

  “Didn’t know a lot of these products existed,” Fletch says. We’re standing at the table I’ve set up in front of my prepping shelves. I’ve had so many shipments come in lately that I need help getting everything unpacked and organized. I’ve had to annex another whole set of shelves to accommodate my supplies, and now all our holiday decorations are in freestanding tubs in the center of the basement. Fletch didn’t want to cede the space, but I’m all, “You want a tidy place to store ornaments, or do you want enough pinto beans to survive a nuclear winter?”

  Fletch picks up one of the cans on the table. “What are we going to do with powdered buttermilk?”

  I look up from my list and push my sweaty bangs out of my eyes. “Isn’t that the whole point of prepping? Right now, I’m not sure what we’d do with powdered buttermilk. But if there’s an event and we need buttermilk? Boom. Ready.”

  He nods slowly. “I see.”

  Fletch, who was originally a hundred percent behind this endeavor, has started to sound more and more Team Stacey, especially now that the boxes of my supplies are too high to see over.

  “Oof, this is heavy. Give me a hand, please?” I’m struggling under the weight of a giant rectangular box. “This goes over in pet supplies.” He assists me and then I whip out my box cutter and busy myself unpacking all the canned dog food.

  “I thought we were just feeding dry food now. Don’t we have plenty of that already?” He squints meaningfully at the tower of airtight thirty-gallon tubs I have stacked beneath the stairs. Ever since Hambone saw me filling the tubs, she insists on sitting next to them when she’s down here. She’s currently standing guard. And drooling.

  I hold up a can. “See, these serve double duty. That’s why I bought Evanger’s. Their dog food is made of human-grade whole foods without additives or preservatives. If things get bad and we burn through our cache of meats, experts advise eating dog food as a cheap, available source of protein. Check out this case of Hunk of Beef—it’s like a mini pot roast! Maisy used to like this, and one time I was curious, so I tasted it. Needed salt, but otherwise, fairly tasty and absolutely something we could consume in a pinch. Throw the Evanger’s, rice, and some dried veggies in boiling water? Instant stew!”

  He crosses his arms and leans back against the furnace. “Good to know, especially since you’re spending all our retirement money on dog food. We’ll need the Evanger’s.”

  “Wrong. My budget is what we’d been spending on Maisy’s kidney medicine. So in a way, it’s like she’s looking out for us from the great beyond.”

  Fletch says nothing, only narrowing his lips in response, likely because he knows this is a lie, but he’s never going to challenge me when I play the Maisy card. Although her meds were pricey, I’ve actually stopped buying anything nonessential, like clothes, antiques, or magazines, and instead have funneled all our extra funds into prepping.

  He sits down on a large box and watches me arrange the dog food by expiration date. “What’s in here?” he asks, pointing down.

  I stand back and assess. “Mmmm, not sure. Could be all the big fake rocks we’re going to use for rainwater collection under the drain spouts. Or maybe they’re the WaterBOBs I ordered. Each bladder holds up to a hundred gallons of freshwater when placed in the bathtub. That reminds me—we should discuss our long-term water storage needs.” I have to pause to blot the sweat rolling down the side of my face. Prepping is a great form of cardio!

  I continue. “There’s a retention pond about a tenth of a mile from here, according to satellite images, and, of course, there’s that creek that runs through the Open Lands park down the street. Best-case scenario is getting water directly from the lake, but we’d need a motorized cart to get there, because it’s too far to go on foot. I’m looking
into those. I’m really intrigued by the ones that run on biodiesel.”

  “Who wouldn’t be?”

  “Back to water, though—we should figure out our purification strategy.”

  He scratches his beard. “Should we?”

  I glance up from the box of medical supplies I’m unpacking. “Of course! You know the rule of three—you can go three minutes without air, three days without water, and three weeks without food. Water’s too important to leave to chance. I thought we could do something with ultraviolet light, but if the water starts off cloudy, like you’d find in a retaining pond, or, really, Lake Michigan, then it doesn’t work as well. Reverse osmosis is wasteful, and you need an electrical source for distillation to work. What if the grid’s down?”

  “What if, indeed?”

  “A certified purifier is the best way to go, but boiling works in a pinch, even though I read it gives the water a funny taste.”

  “Wouldn’t want a funny taste,” he agrees.

  “Are you humoring me?”

  “Not in the least.”

  I set down my box and walk over to the second shelving unit. “Well, smarty, I’ve already accommodated for water that might taste bad. See? Look.” I point to various cylinders all Vanna White style. “You’ll notice that we have an almost unlimited variety of powders to stir into our water—Tang, fruit punch, lemonade, cranberry, and, if we’re feeling festive, mojito!”

  “I’d hate to think we were heading into the apocalypse without benefit of mojito-flavored water.”

  “Right? Anyway, help me find a space for these.” I shove a handful of foil-wrapped capsules at him.

  “And these are?”

  “Potassium iodide—they protect your thyroid against radioactive iodine released during—”

  “I know what they’re for. I just didn’t realize you’d ordered them.”