Resolving Not to Reduce

Martha Stewart is the original “mean girl” ... the woman countless over-achieving females worship from afar. She’s photo-op perfect whether feeding her range-free livestock or farming for truffles, running a global empire or hosting exquisite dinners. Seemingly impeccable, effortlessly precise, she oozes self-confidence while inadvertently trampling her foie gras-impaired sisters. Disciples of the Messiah of Multi-Taskers are identifiable by their “WWMD?” attitudes and glitter-tinged fingertips. I am not among them.
    OK. I admit to scooping out tennis ball-sized pumpkins for “festive” candlestick holders, annihilating a “simple” 36-ingredient recipe, and believing a glue gun would change my life. Nonetheless, I draw the puffy painted line at crafts involving gold leafing and meals requiring foreign language translators. There’s only so much time (read: none at all) I’m willing to relinquish for the art of bejeweling soap dishes or constructing tri-level, Pennsylvania Dutch Lighthouse birdfeeders. I don’t begrudge Martha’s hand-crafted, three-dimensional pop-up cards; must I feel less than for a dependence on canned chicken broth and salad in a bag?
    This new year I’m officially over overdoing it. I’m reminded of a Sinatra song that my dad would sing absent-mindedly around the house. The chorus began, “I don’t dance, don’t ask me … ”  Well, “I don’t blanch, don’t ask me.”  In fact, I don’t clarify, flambé or braise either. Like every other domesticated (and truthful) female, I’ve made the ego- and soufflé-deflating mistake of measuring how I stack up against Martha, the unstackable; the woman who can bring home the pancetta and sauté it up in a Calphalon pan. The type-A diva of domesticity who can make a bed or wedding cake, set a table for two or 62, carve a pumpkin or side of beef, mix a cocktail or bowl of chocolate ganache better, quicker and with more enthusiasm than should be legal.
    As a relatively average mom of three, I can’t compete with someone whose idea of fast food is appetizers on the Concorde and whose leftovers are reviewed by Zagat. So what if I schmear instead of glaze and normally don’t (read: NEVER EVER!) keep quail eggs or calf liver on hand? “Scalding” is due to threadbare pot holders, and “sweating” is what I do in synthetic fabrics. I coddled my firstborn, not my eggs. Sausage comes on an Egg McMuffin or follows Jimmy Dean’s name; is there shame in not knowing a chorizo from an andouille? What the heck is chard anyway? You say shallot, I say small onion; Martha says perciatelli, I say “huh?” I’m not interested in the origin of turnips or how many cheese varieties the World Cheese Exchange Database lists. My lifestyle dictates meals that involve minutes of prep time, not days.
    Sue me for not toasting my own bread crumbs, but there are things I can do that would leave Martha in the dust that’s coating my baseboards. Like applying full makeup while critiquing cheerleading routines, unknotting shoelaces and inventing silly mnemonic devices to remember state capitals (i.e., “Louise twirls a red baton” for Baton Rouge, Louisiana.). It’s no biggie for me to play “peek-a-boo,” vacuum ceiling fans, make grilled cheese sandwiches (without crust), de-flea a dog, de-lice a head, depilate my legs and de-poppy seed a bagel in the time it takes a she-chef to prepare Sautéed Turbot with Braised Endive, Celery Root Flan, Black Truffles and Garlic Nage. I know every word to “Baby Beluga,” I can make a mean Popsicle stick pencil holder, and nobody paints and strings uncooked macaroni like me.
    Can Martha sew on a button, throw a round of “Go Fish” and schedule an orthodontist appointment, annual check-up and a trip to Grandma’s while waiting for her faux patina finish to dry? I’m able to calm young nerves before the dentist and chase monsters from under beds, cut three precisely equal pieces of cake (blindfolded!) to prevent munchkin mutiny. My fried egg sandwiches are legendary, and my onion soup (from a box!) beef brisket brings peace and harmony to five related diners and one giant dog. Our kitchen table is old (not antique), stained (as in permanent marker, not red mahogany) and slightly lopsided; still, my family has congregated there throughout years, cheers and tears despite its lack of mosaic or hand-painted embellishments.
    This being the month for resolutions and clean slates, I’m resolving not to mimic Martha, and more importantly, to be OK with it. Though I think Martha Stewart’s Living should be retitled “Get A Life!”, Martha’s just an iconic scapegoat for my capers-free, scrapbook-challenged existence. When our stencil-less nest empties, maybe then I can bone up on whittling driftwood place cards and baking pies worthy of museum exhibition.
    Meanwhile, I’ll support all who desire to infuse, caramelize and emboss without feeling unworthy about the plain ol’ Vidalias and Worcestershire sauce from the Clinton years in my fridge or my crafts shoebox of pipe cleaners and googly eyes. I’m turning over a new leaf in 2009. Martha can decoupage hers. I’m OK with it.