This started as an attempt to write a few cheeky paragraphs about Martha Stewart, but by the time my brain caught up with my fingers, I was working through some misgivings about work-life balance — with a side of chicken wings. Does this essay make sense? I’m not sure. But maybe it will to some of you.
Martha Stewart — non-airbrushed Martha Stewart, drinking beverages filled with ice that presumably had not been shaved off a ’berg — was at the Super Bowl. On the Jumbotron. Offering vaguely mystical analysis on Instagram: “SF 10. KC 0. good for some. bad for some.”
I love this version of Martha: sequined and sunburned and incoherent. Are all of you aware the original domestic goddess has two instagrams? There’s one that’s definitely run by her company and one operated by Martha’s mortal shell. Guess which one’s better. Somehow, Mortal Martha has half the followers, and this must be remedied. I hope Mortal Martha drank a Bud Light and a Pepsi Sunday night and gnawed on some overcooked stadium chicken wings — you know: semi-desiccated, with bones that crack off into shards with an errant bite. They taste greasy and kind of startlingly great.
I’m thinking about wings because I made some on Sunday, at the start of the busiest day of my working year. I spend the Super Bowl each year pressing the “publish” button and hoping my (desiccated, like those wings) brain hasn’t let any errors through and onto the pages of the Washington Post. Over the course of the afternoon and evening on Sunday, I pressed the occasional incorrect button. I had one meltdown. In harried fashion, I made three pounds of (non-desiccated) wings and a whole bunch of roasted cauliflower. I broke my own rule about buying out-of-season produce and whipped up some guacamole, too, which didn’t taste nearly a good as summertime guacamole. A bag of thick, hard blue corn tortilla chips didn’t help, either.
I did not wear sequins. I wore the same clothes I’d put on before my 10 a.m. workout. I forgot to shower. I forgot to brush my hair. I got seven simultaneous Slack messages at 5:10 p.m., the exact moment I set dinner on the table. I zombified. I forgot about the food, forgot I had a husband. I typed and typed until the man in my kitchen — my husband, it turned out — asked if maybe one of those messages might be able to wait. I snapped at him. I typed more. I dragged my computer to the table with a stack of napkins and ate a few bites, then wiped my fingers, then typed a few words, then ate a few bites more.
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