The Tao of Martha: My Year of LIVING; Or, Why I'm Never Getting All That Glitter Off of the Dog

by Jen Lancaster

  Immediately, I realize that in living like Martha for so many months, I’ve not made her macaroni and cheese once.

  Did we lose a war or something?

  Martharoni and cheese (not what she calls it, but she totally should) is absolutely one of my all-time favorite dishes, as it’s a steamin’ bowl of melted comfort. However, Martha’s recipe is not so moist that it turns into a big soupy mess, oozing across the plate and sullying the green beans. The crunchy crust gives the macaroni much-needed gravitas, and the chili powder lends the perfect amount of zing. If I ever find myself on death row, this is so on my final menu. (I say this more to emphasize the tastiness of the dish and less as an ad hoc admission of a desire to commit a capital crime.)

  I’ve intended to rectify my mac-free situation for a while now. Through proper planning, I’ve had my blocks of cheddar and Gruyère at the ready for whenever the weather finally cooled and the urge struck. But when I was cleaning out the fridge today I noticed that the cheeses are on the verge of breaking bad. I realize it’s still warm out, but if I don’t use these now they won’t last, and I’ll be so mad at myself if I end up wasting these ingredients.

  Now I’m determined not to let my sadness (and possibly a bit of the fall TV season) get in the way of meal preparation. I hate when I wind up throwing away all kinds of formerly beautiful produce and previously delicious dairy when I meant to make dinner but I wasn’t in the mood. I particularly feel guilty when I don’t cook the hamburger or pork chops I’ve defrosted in time. Knowing that some noble beast gave his life for my dinner and then I couldn’t even do him the honor of eating him before he spoiled because I was busy having All the Feels and ordering Thai and watching Teresa Giudice plot against her younger, firmer sister-in-law gives me existential angst.

  (Also? Melissa was not a stripper, capisce?)

  At one point over the summer, we realized we’d been wasting so much that Fletch insisted I make a list of all the foodstuffs I had to toss and promise that I’d stop buying them. (RIP, farmers’ market beets, barrels of marinated olives, and an ocean of premade tuna salad.) Granted, I was able to salvage a few items by freezing them, and now the fridge is stockpiled with no fewer than eight thousand overripe bananas.

  What is it with me and banana hoarding, by the way? I like bananas well enough, yet I’m not exactly ape over them. (My apologies for that truly despicable pun, but I’m in a weakened emotional state and I couldn’t help myself. Do you want me to cry? Do you? No? Then the pun stands.)

  I mean, seed-specked dragon fruit, impossible-to-navigate pomegranate, and boring old apricots would have to become extinct before bananas even cracked my Top Twenty Favorite Fruits list. But the second they begin to grow spotty and lose their solid constitution, they morph into something more precious than rubies, and I squirrel them away in the chilly confines of the freezer as fast as I can.

  I keep telling Fletch that I’m going to use this vaguely phallic stockpile to craft the world’s most delicious and nutritious smoothies, but when I finally attempted to do so recently, I discovered that in order to access the stupid banana, I needed to have peeled them before giving them the full-on Han Solo carbonite treatment. Peeling a frozen banana is like breaking into Fort Knox, or being Taylor Swift’s long-term boyfriend: patently impossible! I’ve also learned that defrosting them first renders said bananas both useless and liquid-disgusting, so I no longer try that route, either.

  Once science figures out a way to de-peel a frozen banana, I’ll be in the catbird seat. Until then, there’s still plenty of room in the second fridge in the laundry room. Also, we’ve been pricing deep freezers for the basement. See? It’s all fine.

  Anyway, I’m determined to make macaroni and cheese tonight for Fletch’s birthday dinner. It’s time I got back in the kitchen. I plan to start the process shortly, as soon as his present gets here. I’ll do a quick wrap job and then I’ll start the second phase of the meal. The short ribs have been braising nicely for the past three hours, and all the dogs are hanging out by the oven, closing their eyes and inhaling really deeply. Dogs are supposed to be able to sense every element of a dish, so I hope they appreciate how I slowly built the layers of flavors by caramelizing the mirepoix (diced onions, carrots, and celery) in pancetta fat and then deglazing the pan with stock and merlot. If the short ribs taste half as good as they smell, we’re in for a very happy birthday indeed.

  In terms of prep, I’ve already cubed the zucchini (yeah, still bitter over the garden) and squash, which I plan to toss in olive oil and a rosemary-sage salt, for pan-roasting. I need only to chop a little bacon for the frisée salad. I consider adding a poached egg to the salad, but the rest of the meal is so heavy that we don’t need it. Now the kitchen is immaculate, the birthday white chocolate cheesecake is chilling, and the wine is waiting to be decanted.

  Seriously, Google “organized” and you will see a photo of me.

  Well, technically if you Google “organized” you’ll see a bunch of stuff about the Mafia, but the point is, I’ve got this shit on lock and Martha would be proud.

  So, the rest of the day should go: present wrapping, then macaroni making, dinner eating, present opening, and television watching. (Mindy Project, I luff you!) Yes, this should all work out nicely.

  I ordered Fletch a coat for his birthday, which, frankly, seems like a crappy gift, right up there with savings bonds and roadside assistance memberships. But he seemed really excited about the prospect of a new coat and it’s his day, not mine. Coat it is. I found a place online that could deliver what he wants today and that was that.

  Please note that I didn’t argue with him over his bullshit gift, like he did when I mentioned what was on my birthday wish list.

  “I would like an aquarium,” I said.

  “Pfft, out of the question,” he replied with a wave of his hand, like he was dismissing the notion of anything fish-based entirely.

  “Whoa, what do you mean ‘out of the question’? Who made you Birthday King? It’s fish, not a damn pony. Plus, I didn’t say no to your stupid coat. I mean, I don’t want a coat, but it’s not my day. See, that’s how birthdays work.”

  Patiently Fletch explained, “Yes, but an aquarium is ridiculous; A) we have no room for one, and B) you wouldn’t take care of the fish anyway.”

  I replied, “Alphabet back at you! A) I’m not looking to build a wall of shark tanks like the lobby of the Mirage hotel or some Miami Vice drug lord, and B) shut up. C) I don’t want a saltwater monstrosity that requires a PhD in marine biology to maintain, and D) I just thought it would be neat to have something small to put in my office on the black credenza, like twenty gallons or so. E) I figured it would be relaxing to hear water bubbling while I’m working, and the cats might get a kick out of it, too. Maybe watching fish would calm them down, and F) they wouldn’t pee everywhere.”

  Unmoved by my A-to-Z argument and enumerated salient points, he shook his head. “A fish tank is a terrible idea. You’d never clean it. I remember the algae farm you used to have when we started dating. Biohazardous. You had to scrape through the green to even see the fish.” To punctuate his point, he shuddered.

  “Yet you forget that Oprah Winfish lived for five years after that.”

  My other goldfish, Sally Jessy, Geraldo, and Ricki Lake, didn’t last nearly as long. Typical.

  He suddenly became very interested in scrolling through the TV listings. “I…don’t remember that.”

  I was resolute. “You don’t remember having to lug a half-empty tank to three new apartments because I refused to give her a premature burial at sea?”

  He simply frowned in return. “No tank. Rather, no, tank you. Heh.”

  “Yeah, hardy-har-har.”

  Yet I didn’t press the point, because sometimes I like him to have the illusion that he’s running the show.

  Trust me, though, on my birthday, there will be fish.

  Presents in mind, I head to the front porch to see if my box arrived yet. The dogs wou
ld normally bark their fool heads off when UPS arrives, but they’re so enamored with the smell of braising meat that a battalion of squirrels could set up camp on the lawn right now and they’d not notice.

  I peek out the window and see no conspicuous cardboard box; then I open the door to make sure it’s not propped up against it. Nope. Nada. Which is weird. I was very specific about ordering using UPS, since they’re far more reliable than our postal carrier. Only about a third of the items we’re supposed to receive via the post office actually arrive.

  (Although I have no proof, I’m pretty sure my mailman drinks.)

  (Otherwise, why don’t we receive our mail until five p.m.?)

  (Addiction is more forgivable than incompetence, FYI.)

  I zip up to my office to reread the coat shipper’s confirmation e-mail; then, just to be sure, I recheck the UPS tracking number. Wait, what does this mean?

  SHIPPER FAILED TO PLACE PARCEL OUT FOR DELIVERY PRIOR TO CUTOFF TIME

  As it turns out, even though I ordered in plenty of time, somehow they didn’t get Fletch’s coat on the truck and now it won’t be here until tomorrow. ARGH.

  I make some calls and I may or may not get a little snippy at the third-world customer service rep after she explains that somehow this is my fault for purchasing the kind of outerwear that people forget to put in an outgoing shipment prior to cutoff time.

  Going forward, can someone please, please empower customer service reps to say the following magical words: “I’m so sorry. I understand you’re frustrated. How can I make this right?” It would really save some strain on everyone’s vocal cords.

  I tell Fletch what happened and he’s totally fine with not getting his present until tomorrow. But what if it suddenly drops forty-five degrees and snows between now and then? And what if my theory of not unwrapping something on your actual birthday leads to a year of bad luck? What then?

  Unwilling to chance it, I jump into the car and drive to the cute little Williams-Sonoma in town. For the past couple of years, I’ve been giving Fletch their matching glassware for the bar, slowly replacing our piecemeal collection of (thus far unbreakable) one-dollar wineglasses. That was pretty much the plan for this year until we had the big coat conversation a couple of days ago.

  While I wait for the clerk to wrap the martini glasses, I notice a jar of macaroni and cheese starter. Now, that’s interesting. However, this stuff can’t possibly be a good as what Martha prescribes. And yet…most of the ingredients are exactly what’s in the original recipe: milk, butter, flour, nutmeg, and salt—there’s nothing in here I can’t pronounce, and there are no additives or preservatives.

  What this looks like is a jar of someone else having made the appropriate effort. So I could skip the hard parts of making the béchamel and just use this jar?

  Could it be that easy?

  At this point, it’s already coming up on six p.m., and the idea of a shortcut is not without merit. Martha would resoundingly disapprove (unless it were her brand), but she probably would have thought to ask Fletch what he wanted for his damn birthday more than two days before the event, and thus would have plenty of opportunity to implement a plan B if the present didn’t arrive in time. Then again, Martha’s not preoccupied by bursting into tears every time she finds a bit of Maisy’s fur on her fall clothes; nor is she attempting to re-potty-train the Red Menace and hand-scrubbing all of her soiled rugs, so I’m cutting myself some slack.

  Anyway, the jar’s fourteen dollars, but with the amount of time and the ingredients I’ll save, the price seems worth it. I ask the clerk to add the jar to my total, and once everything is wrapped, she helps me carry my bags to the car. My car’s normally black, but I hate paying for the fancy hand car washes Fletch demands, so right now it’s kind of gray. (I love the four-dollar washes at the gas station with the big revolving brushes, but Fletch says we may as well rub the car with steel wool.) (I still sneak into them sometimes.) The clerk likely regrets assisting me, as my fender stripes her apron with road grit. Then she comments on how dirty my car is and I feel less guilty.

  When I’m back in the kitchen, I arrange my blocks of cheese and begin the hunt for my grater. The stupid grater is another reason why I don’t make the mac as often as I’d like. No matter how careful I am, no matter how hard I try, it’s impossible for me to grate cheese without also shaving off the tops of my knuckles. What’s for dinner? My DNA!

  As I poke around the disorganized cabinets, I run across the food processor. Fletch loves this thing and uses it all the time, but I’ve never quite gotten the hang of it. I have an odd prejudice against food processors, largely because it bothers me that Fletch is more adept at something in the kitchen than I am. But as I inspect the various blades, I notice there’s one that looks like it might be appropriate for shredding.

  Again, could it really be that easy? Is it possible to finally make this dish without making myself bleed?

  It is and I can! My victory tastes like Gruyère as I gloat over my perfectly proportionate mounds of shredded cheese. My pasta’s ready (Martha, forgive me, but I prefer cavatappi noodles over elbows), so now all I have to do is heat the jar of sauce, stir in the cheese, and shove the whole thing in the oven. Dinner at seven p.m., just like the good Lord intended!

  I pop the lid and try to pour the macaroni starter into my enamel-covered cast-iron pot. I was anticipating the sauce being all creamy, but actually it’s more of a big, gelatinous cube. I urge the mixture out with the help of a spatula and it lands in the pan with a gratuitous plop. I slowly begin to warm and stir, careful not to scald the mixture. Martha says to be really cautious with anything containing milk, because it’s so easy to ruin when the heat’s up too high. Like, have you ever had a horrible latte and couldn’t grasp why it was so bad? Burning is why.

  After about five minutes, the béchamel is creamy and just a little bit bubbly. Again, I don’t bring it to a full boil, because I’m about to add the cheddar and I don’t want the sauce to break. Excessive heat makes cheese separate into oily and lumpy bits. Once the cheese breaks down, it never gets smooth again.

  The thing is, I’ve watched just enough Top Chef (fine, Hell’s Kitchen) to know that you HAVE to taste your food before serving, or, in this case, before adding almost twenty dollars’ worth of high-end cheese.

  And I’m so glad that I did, because this sauce is rank. Somehow this mixture manages to turn my tongue dry while making the rest of my mouth water. The whole thing manages to be bland, yet also bitter and awful, but I rationalize that that’s because I haven’t added any of my seasonings. I love Williams-Sonoma and I want to give them the benefit of the doubt. I reason that this isn’t a complete sauce, so as soon as I add salt, pepper, and garlic, it should be delicious.

  Should be.

  But is not.

  Not even close.

  According to the ingredient list, there’s nothing in the mix that should make the sauce taste this way. So what’s the deal? Then I quickly scan the Williams-Sonoma Web site to see a dozen similar complaints and that the product is no longer available online.

  The good news is, this is not my doing, but the bad news is that it is my problem.

  From the corner of my eye, I see Martha’s confident visage grinning away on the cover of her American Food cookbook, and I steel myself for what comes next.

  I scrape the whole fourteen dollars’ worth into the sink and begin to make the sauce properly.

  In the scheme of things, fourteen dollars is nothing, yet in the Big, Bitter Book of Accounting that lives in my head, I’ll file this transgression next to the seven dollars I never received for babysitting for the creepy family who didn’t have a television, the meathead who used to steal my Chicago Tribune when we lived in the bad neighborhood, and my college frenemy who never chipped in her twenty-six dollars for the hotel when we saw U2 in Indianapolis in 1988.

  Bitter forgives, but Bitter doesn’t forget.

  Or I could just return the bottle to the store and get
my money back.

  You know what? That’s a better idea.

  Anyway, in less than ten minutes, I have a batch of silky béchamel that is so creamy and perfect that Williams-Sonoma should be bottling what’s on my stove. I toss in the cheese, adding a little bit of fontina and smoked mozzarella, because there’s no law against adding a few personal tweaks to your favorite recipe. Case in point? I often don’t have white bread for the crust topping, so I improvise with buttery bread crumbs. I promise you it’s equally tasty.

  Dinner’s delayed by fifteen extra minutes and there’s suddenly a sink full of dishes, but the end result is well worth the wait.

  The short ribs steal the show, but the macaroni proves itself to be worthy of the pairing. Fletch declares this to be the best birthday dinner he’s ever eaten.

  And just when I least expect it, Martha illuminates another tenet of her Tao: Save your shortcuts for road trips; do it right or don’t do it at all.

  Now, if she could just show me what to do with those damn bananas, I’d be all set.

  MY KINGDOM FOR A CROCK-POT

  I’ve hit a wall and now I need a project.

  I need to stay in motion.

  The minute I stand still is the minute I begin to fall apart.

  Maisy’s been gone a month, and I have to find a way to stop obsessing. Missing her has become a physical ache. Every time I think, “I’m better now!” I have a setback. I’m somehow regressing in my grief and I don’t understand why.

  Maybe it’s finally sinking in that she’s not coming back, especially since we received the urn with her ashes. We placed her on a shelf in the great room, surrounded by the ashes of all our cats. I arranged her in such a way that she’d be able to see all the doors as well as the main hallways of the house. Had she been able to haul her ponderous bulk up there, this is exactly where she’d have wanted to sit.

  Still, and even with the addition of Hambone, I’m struggling.