If you were to contrast me with a cultural icon, to pick a character in mainstream dialogue with whom I have close to nothing in common, the first woman on the list would be Martha Stewart. I can think of absolutely no point where our personalities, personal histories, or day to day existence would intersect. I realize this is a strange way to analyze both yourself and a famous person, but there is a reason why Martha has inspired this moment of fairly pointless self-reflection. Every month, Martha publishes a personal calendar in her magazine. It lists the wholesome, charitable, and bizarrely woodsy activities she plans to embark upon that month, ostensibly for the purposes of 1) making us all feel bad about ourselves, 2) making us all feel poor, and 3) making us all feel the crushing monotony of our day-to-day routine that does not involve harvesting apples from the orchard in our backyard. To some, this list may feel like a catalyst for change, an opportunity to insert a little whimsy into the month of whatever. To others, it may seem a laughable marketing ploy. To me, however, it seemed like a challenge. Brandishing the glossy pages high above my head at my boss’s kitchen table, “I’m going to do it!” I cried. “I’m going to do everything Martha does every day for a whole month! I’m going to show her!” 

“No,” my boss responded. “No, you aren’t.” 

That was exactly a year ago. Jen can be an irritatingly perceptive individual at times. 

So I’ve given up on the whole month. I’ve given up on the idea of finding a stable to frequent in a creepy way, demanding they allow me to perform tasks I don’t even understand. I’ve given up on the idea of 30 days of harvesting, basting (I am a vegetarian, FTR), shellacking, tying-off (plants, not heroin-arms, natch.), and other such domesticity. A month I can’t achieve, but a week? A week I think I can probably do. What follows is an account of my mad cap attempt to master a week of Martha-esque tasks. I, who still have to call my sister to inquire how long it takes to boil an egg. I, who need my MALE roommate to show me how to iron a shirt. I will be Martha. And by the end of the week, I will be a better person. Or I will be in jail. 

Place your bets. 

The Task: Create a delicious appetizer afternoon for five girlfriends, cooking recipes from Martha’s February issue.  
The Recipes: Sliced Mushrooms with Melted Fontina, Escarole and Walnut Salad, Pita with ricotta, Fried Olives and Tangelo Relish.
The result: Success!
Over morning coffee, I explain the challenge to my roommate Vanessa. Her response? So, can you make my bed every morning?” Um, obviously Martha Stewart has birds and squirrels to do that shit for her. Geez. I’m surrounded by philistines. We drag our hungover selves from brunch to Fiesta Farms, where some handy tweeting confirmed that they did, in fact, have all the ingredients I needed (tangelos are also called minneola oranges. Thanks guys!) Three bags of groceries and (ONLY!) an hour and a half in the kitchen later, we had a delightful afternoon feast. I even managed to light an oven mitt on fire and put it out without anybody noticing. Martha would be so proud! All of these dishes can be accomplished by even the most kitchen-simple of folk (hi there!). The pita with ricotta, a heart-healthy snack, would make a great breakfast. (It’s accented with dried apricots, toasted almonds, and Martha recommends honey, but we drizzled on agave nectar.) Simply spread part-skim ricotta cheese on a whole wheat pita, and top with dried apricots, a sprinkle of toasted almonds, and agave nectar. We toasted the pitas for extra softness. The fried olives, stuffed with blue cheese, are a snap to prepare and look impressive, and you can have a lot of fun putting up Lady Gaga monster claws covered in blue cheese.  Martha recommends soaking for fifteen minutes to cut the brine, I might have given them half an hour, as they were still very salty. A handy tip from kitchen whisperer Vanessa came when I combined bread crumbs, an egg, and flour all into one bowl, only to discover separate dipping was necessary. “Before you make anything, read the entire recipe.” Got it. On to the next one. 

The Task: Nina Phillips from Mason Neck, Virginia asks Martha, ‘Can I make vanilla extract at home?’ You can, and I will. 
The tools: A “glass vessel with a tight seal,” a vanilla bean, and some vodka. 
The Result: Yeesh. 
I thought this would be the easiest of all the tasks. Obtain bottle with stopper from Tap Phong in Chinatown, obtain Vanilla Bean from dry goods store, obtain vodka, and wait two months. I did debate if I could use duty free gin instead. (I, like The Black Hoof’s Jen Agg, abhor vodka.) But alas, Martha says. So, materials obtained, I attempted to create extract in my sunny dining room. Splitting the vanilla beans with a paring knife? No problem! My hands smelled delightful! Pouring vodka into the tiny mouth of the glass bottle I bought? Easy as pie, thanks to a plastic pitcher I stole from my university’s on-campus pub a few years ago. Fish the cheap and ill-fitting rubber stopper out of the bottle several times while splishing and splashing bean-y vodka all over self and kitchen? CAN DO! But then I got cocky. My mixture all mixed and (finally) stoppered, I lined it up to take the requisite journalizing photos in the sun, and it slid off its pedestal and shattered on my hardwood floor. Gone was my soon-to-be-extract mixture, perfect for gifting (Martha suggests!) in its beautiful bottle. My dining room did smell vanilla-y, but all my hard work was for nothing. UNTIL! I remembered there was still about half a mickey of vodka left over, scooped the beans up, threw them into the plastic bottle, sealed and done. Scrawled DO NOT DRINK on it with a Sharpie, and put it on my counter. In two months, I’ll have a mickey full of vanilla bean extract to my name. The last time I checked on it, it was turning a beautiful nut brown. Mischief managed. 

The Task: Create a delightful velvet pouch to hold anything from knitting needles to reading glasses. 
The tools: Velvet scraps, needle and thread, evergreen sprigs, iron
The Result: Lack thereof. 
It’s a rainy Saturday afternoon, and an entourage of stoned boys are following me around Queen Street from fabric shop to fabric shop while I search for spare velvet ends in the offcut bins. Having no luck, I finally suck it up and pay for a quarter-meter of velvet. Martha uses ribbons, and her pouches are wee, but I’ve decided that since I’ve been carrying my camera around in a sock for three years (this piece is really making me take a long, hard look at my various absurdities), I’ll go big or go home and make a pouch with paunch, big enough to house my camera. So I come home with the velvet, fire up the iron, and pluck some sprigs from the miniature fir tree we’ve had in our dining room since Christmas. Martha instructs to lay the velvet “nap side down,” whatever that means. The idea here is to create the impression of the evergreen in the velvet. Whimsical, no? No. Doesn’t work. I can see the barest hint dented into the velvet, but it looks nothing like the perfect silhouette achieved by Marta. And so my challenge ends, not with a bang but with a whimper. 

~Haley Cullingham