About twice a year, I indulge in a little secret and guilty pleasure. I buy a Martha Stewart Living magazine. That means twice a year I actually have the desire to own an ice cream machine and make my own stationary. I grew up dreaming of the days when I would host dinner parties with my matching Royal Dalton fine-bone china. The courses would be numerous, the crystal would be Waterford, and the pearls would be better than June’s. I really, really liked the idea of hosting parties. I do not know now if it is something that came with the focus my family and religion put on my being a wife and mother–but I REALLY got into the “hostess” aspect of my expected future–everything else seemed a little too daunting to wrap my brain around (like the actual marriage and motherhood parts).
When I read Martha Stewart, I get carried away to a land of what might have been—still could be. I dream of a place where children are well-behaved and have perfectly curly hair–and they run through fields of daisies with you, hold your hand, and then tell you all their secrets. I dream of a place where my husband (one of which I do not have) would wear a salmon colored tie on Easter because it went with my dress and he likes to match. I dream of the ideals of what I grew up wanting. I’ve never been able to actually face the realities. Perhaps that is why Martha’s monthly publication still holds power over me. It represents something I could never fully embrace, even though I was taught to, even though part of me wants to, even though it sounds more than divine.
Why, in this issue alone I had all of the following thoughts:
1. I want to weave my own picnic mat and then learn how to tie it together with beautiful twine—take it to the beach and eat freshly made custard, berry tarts with little sprigs of mint on them.
2. I want to create a pattern for my very own utensil holders for each place sitting. I will make them out of cute plaid material made of out woven hemp (durable for years to come!).
3. I would like a butterfly stencil. I will use this to cut out various colors of butterflies and attach them to a white table cloth to create a harmonious look for my summer party. There will be butterfly shaped place cards with names written in my perfect calligraphy. I will even make butterfly shaped ice cubes to put in the Wonderful Watermelon coolers I will have juiced myself that afternoon.
4. I will have a lazy afternoon brunch that consists of chive omelets with chanterelles, cornmeal-fried trout (I caught myself), tomato-sorrel-basil panzanella, and fried squash blossoms. Note to self—what is a chanterelle?
5. I will get good at croquet. I will. I promise–in a sundress, with a headband, and a perfect tan.
6. I will grow and pick currants and raspberries and make them into jams and chutneys.
7. I will make fresh lemonade daily.
8. I will learn how to fertilize my peonies…I will first learn how to grow peonies.
9. I really want to tidy up my non-existent potting shed by “sprucing” up the paint and shelving.
10. I really want my sheets to match my nightgown (which is diaphanous).
And while it is hard to write these things without sounding like I’m mocking them (and her)—part of me still wants this life. Part of me wants to take out my china that was only ever used once and is now packed away in my sister’s basement (along with that crystal I got in Ireland). Part of me wants to make homemade sorbet instead of buying it from my Portuguese friend down on the beach. Part of me wants to make scalloped edged, delicate notes in dreamy handwriting instead of sending e-cards. Part of me wants those perfectly coiffed children and husband in a pink tie. And part of me wonders if it will only ever come true (and rightly so, as I am so perfectly content in life right now that I can’t imagine having the energy for the ten things listed above, let alone babies and husbands) in my daydreams. I’m sort of ok with that. Actually, I’m MORE than ok with that.
*(note to readers—this post was written at two in the morning after I slaved away on a post about the limits of faith—but then I got to thinking– I sort of just want ONE post on here where I can’t be equated with the anti-Christ. So, enjoy. I’ll save the other for next month. Until then, indulge in something guilty today.)
Stella,
I hope your dreams of Martha Stewart Living come true in the celestial kingdom.
I don’t have strong feelings about Martha Stewart one way or the other, probably because she’s not my particular fantasy. But I don’t think I’d classify what she does as homemaking. I think it bears approximately the same relationship to actual homemaking that a romance novel does to the labor involved in cultivating and sustaining a marriage for 25–or 50–years.
ZD, I like that analogy. Excellent.
I used the term (homemaking) rather broadly, to define her work, and I concede it’s not the Mormon, or even the Relief Society definition. When Martha talks broadly about all her work, she uses the term “homekeeping.”
I am not championing her way of running a household at all, just giving her a measure of respect for her success in the industry of selling home-keeping to American women.
*raises hand*
I take Martha Stewart Living. I drool over the eye candy. I’m a sucker for the fantasy.
I also see hundreds–thousands–of man hours.
And then I just want a staff.
Once on The View, the ladies were talking about who they’d marry if they had to marry a woman. And I gave it some thought and decided I’d marry Martha Stewart because she could cook and clean and decorate and she’d be so busy I could do whatever I wanted. Then I realized I’m practically married to her anyway because Bill is a female Martha Stewart.
Thank you all for your replies and for indulging my guilty pleasure. It is interesting to look at someone so iconic in the homemaking industry in our world. I guess someone needs to make a living from it–and she truly does.
Oh, Stella! I could have written this post! Every once in a while I try to do a Martha project that turns out awful (I hung my Halloween wreath one year, took it out of the box the next year, and threw it away in embarrassment). That’s when I realize my fantasy Martha world should stay safely in my head.
My brother-in-law calls Martha Stewart magazine pornography for the housewife! I’ve always loved that.