Camp Cupcake Blues

I worked for Martha Stewart once. It was my first job out of college. I had moved to New York from Montreal, and my sister was a writer for her magazine, Martha Stewart Living. She hooked me up with a gig as a production assistant. My first day, I had to drive up to Turkey Hill (her Connecticut property) and wrap hundreds of boxes in plain brown paper for a TV commercial shoot promoting her new service "Martha By Mail"-- her first foray into merchandising. That was the first time I had ever heard of, much less seen, the famous 'Arucana' chickens that laid magical eggs in the pastel colors of blue, yellow and green from which she drew her palette. I also met her two Chow dogs that day and her two fluffy, indifferent cats.

We worked out of the barn, which had been transformed into a headquarters and prep studio. Everyone had disappeared--to go fetch a small mailtruck they were painting with her beehive logo. Having finished my task, I sat on the outside steps alone, waiting for the rest of the team to return.

That's when I saw her coming towards me, from the house. I was scared shitless as she approached and something about the perspective gave me the impression that she would be approximately twelve feet tall by the time she reached me. She wasn't, though.

She looked at me, and asked, matter of factly, "Where is everyone?"

"Um," I ummed. "They...went to get the...mail. Truck. The mail truck."

"Well come help me weed the vegetable garden," she replied, which seemed simultaneously both pleasant and horrifying.

I jumped up and followed her to the nearby vegetable patch. She handed me a trowel, pointed out what a weed looks like, and I went to work. But so did she. And as we wound our way through the rows, she took the time to point out what every vegetable was, and assessed their progress.

"Those are our peppers. Oh my, look how red they are. These are going to be incredibly sweet. The squash look like they should be ready to pick in another week or so..."

I kid you not. It went like this for some time. I'm not trying to give you the impression that we bonded. She never asked me who I was, or what I was doing on her property or for her company. She hardly looked me in the eye. Her bond was with the vegetables, and her garden. She just assumed I would want to know everything there was to know about the subject. And I'm not entirely sure she wouldn't have said the same things if no was there at all.

I had other interactions with her. They were always similar to that first one. I once had to drive out to Connecticut to bring her a mysterious package. When I got there, she tore it open, and pulled out a brass door handle. She looked positively ecstatic when she saw it, and squealed "Oh! Unfinished brass!!!" Then she grabbed another door handle she had lying near her--it was so perfect cameras could have been rolling---and held her palms out for me to compare. "You see the difference?" she said. "The finished brass is shiny and garrish. The unfinished brass is so much nicer."

She was right. It was nicer.

Martha is getting out of prison this Friday. The media will be there to capture it--it's reportedly her wish. No doubt she'll be a different woman. Maybe missing some of her luster.

But you know what?

I think she'll be nicer.

Comments

[Tami]

both touching and funny.....

vive l ' blog!

[Mike]

Really charming. Observant, refreshingly good-humored and good-natured. It made me smile.