The Tao of Martha: My Year of LIVING

by Jen Lancaster

  Black toffee is not a thing now.

  This toffee tastes like war or Lucifer’s tears. This toffee is a molten pool of broken Christmas promises. If sadness had a flavor, it would be the contents of the Pyrex. Actually, I snagged a tiny bite of the portion with melted spoon in it and it was WAY better than this roiling mass of roofing tar.

  Um, listen, Easy Toffee…I don’t mean to tell you how to do your job, but this is unacceptable. I’m marking you down as Does Not Meet Minimum Standards of Performance. You’re on notice. The first batch was clearly my fault, but this time, it’s all you.

  Because I am not someone who has her ass handed to her by a fouringredient recipe, I try again.

  Apparently, I am someone who has her ass handed to her by a fouringredient recipe.

  Once the smoke dissipates, I take another stab at the toffee.

  Five and a half minutes later, I’m ready to stab the toffee.

  EASY TOFFEE, YOUR NAME IS A LIE. I CURSE YOUR VERY EXISTENCE.

  “Smells like a tire fire in there,” Fletch comments from the other room.

  Pfft. You should taste it.

  I’m determined to not be beaten by this stupid recipe. This time I turn down the heat far lower than recommended. I bet the cook who wrote this recipe doesn’t have my miracle pan; ergo, her toffee took longer.

  No dice.

  Okay, let me revise my previous statement.

  Whoever posted this recipe on the Internet is a dangerous person who is responsible for murdering stick after stick after stick of my delicious European butter. He or she is a psychopath intent on ruining the holidays for people who are new to making candy. That person lures you in all friendly-like, all, “Hey! Want some toffee! It’s easy! So easy that ‘easy’ is its middle name!” Then you try it his way, again and again and again and a-goddamned-gain, and you end up with a kitchen that smells like two-for-one day at the crematorium.

  Why? Why does someone want to ruin toffee for me? What’s the end game? Who are you and what do you have to gain by messing with me? Does the warden know you’re posting recipes from the computer in the prison library? Listen, I’M SORRY YOU WEREN’T HUGGED ENOUGH AS A CHILD, OKAY? But don’t ruin toffee for innocent bystanders. That’s not going to make your daddy love you.

  Defeated and redolent of charcoal, I’m down to my last stick of butter. It’s do-or-die-or-be-stuck-using-corn-syrup time. I’m going to do this, but I’m going to do it my way. I’m not going to follow the directions; I’m going to follow my instincts. The minute I think everything looks ready, then it will be ready. Seven minutes is for suckers; boil and be done.

  Then I melt and stir and reduce, and four minutes into the process, I determine I’ve reached a stopping point. Gingerly, I remove the pan from the stove and pour the mix over the walnuts. Then I carefully tap out the half cup of chocolate chips and cover the pan with a cookie sheet and place it in the oven—not to bake, just to retain heat—while everything melts together.

  Ten minutes later, I inspect the contents. The chocolate’s soft enough to spread, so I do so with a clean spatula. Then, per the instructions, I slice the toffee into small portions now before it hardens.

  I wait until the concoction’s fully cooled before taking an extraordinarily small bite, and I’m immediately struck by how buttery this confection is. Holy cats, this was worth sacrificing almost two pounds of Plugrá. This is amazing! This is delicious! The combination of walnuts, semisweet chocolate, and sweetly caramelized butter is transcendent! These little toffee bites are going to be the star of the show on my holiday cookie platters!

  Then? When people ask me how I made it? I’m going to tell them, “I have the best recipe. It’s so easy!”

  And I will laugh and laugh and laugh.

  Christmas 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 con
versation 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.

  On Sunday evening, after doing my I Was Right dance, we’re at Home Depot looking for another tree. Apparently seven feet is shorter than eight feet, regardless of any sort of row-based optical illusion. However, getting a second tree works out well, because I can put the seven-footer in the living room and do that one up with all my handmade decorations. The bigger tree can go in the great room, where we’ll deck it with our non–potentially craptacular ornaments.

  “This one is fantastic!” Fletch exclaims, knocking the trunk against the ground to dislodge any stray needles. Few fall. “We have a winner.”

  I peer at the tag. “Sweetie, says here it’s ten feet.”

  “With a fresh cut, it’ll work, no problem.”

  Yeah…if you believe in Christmas miracles.

  But I don’t argue. Instead, I give him a side hug. “If this tree makes you happy, then I’m happy.”

  With a cheeky grin, he turns to the clerk. “Sold!”

  I think we all know how this is going to end.

  Everything I hoped to accomplish in this year of Living begins to coalesce as we approach Christmas. For example, I have a rollicking good time with Laurie making glittered ornaments and pinecones.

  And Joanna and I laugh our butts off decorating sugar cookies while discussing what our eighteen-year-old selves would think of us twenty-seven years later. (Consensus: nerds. Old nerds. I wouldn’t have it any other way.)

  I’m overwhelmingly proud when everyone genuinely apprec
iates what I knitted for them.

  Using ribbon I had custom-made for the occasion on Martha-recommended NameMaker.com that read Ho, Ho, Ho, Motherfucker, I had a ridiculously good time putting together Christmas cookie jars for everyone. And is it really the holidays without cookies made to match my first book cover?

  Normally when I wrap Christmas presents, I’m in a rush and do so as quickly and sloppily as possible. But this year, having become organized, I blocked off a whole evening so I could wrap while watching the Christmas episode of Downton Abbey, followed by The Sound of Music. I believe my happiness is self-evident in the wrap jobs.

  In crafting my own swags and greenery displays, I not only save money, but also create something beautiful and festive and welcoming.

  Even though it’s temporarily hidden by the second tree, I love the vintage dog wall I’ve started over Maisy’s old favorite sitting spot. Although technically, I use English bulldog photos, I feel they perfectly capture Maisy’s essence. As I find other items that remind me of her, I’ll add them. And if I could somehow make the portraits fart on command, then it would almost be like she was here.

  For now, Hambone’s doing her best to fulfill that portion of Maisy’s legacy.

  I still miss Maisy every single day, yet I carry her Tao with me. I want to be awesome, give awesome, and get awesome, so tonight we’ve amended our holiday party from last year. Instead of the massive event we threw in 2011, tonight will be a lot more low-key. Mostly it’s going to be a bunch of good friends sitting around playing Apples to Apples and Catch Phrase and drinking wine.

  The menu’s simple, and I cooked all the dishes in the past couple of days, so there’s no need to scramble before the gathering. Everything’s in a CorningWare pan, ready to be popped in the oven when the time comes. Julia and Finch are already here, and we have enough time before the party that I get to teach her how to make my dipped peppermint pops.

  Will tonight be the spectacle that it was last year?