The Tao of Martha (36 page)

I
guarantee that the basement in Bedford is stocked to the rafters with beautiful beets and gorgeous green beans and zaftig zucchini, all harvested and stored at the peak of freshness, because Martha’s perpetually featuring canning recipes and techniques.

Maybe she’s been so diligent about canning because she fears nuclear winter, or maybe it’s just because this was a great year for apples and tomatoes and she’s a huge proponent of seasonal produce. (FYI, she even offers free canning label templates on her Web site, and they are
supercute
.) In her book
Whateverland
, daughter Alexis dishes on how Martha hates to get rid of anything, so I guarantee that if she’s in her kitchen filming a segment about canning, then those items will be stored, rather than pitched.

Regardless, the specific reason she might keep extra canned goods on
hand is not important; that I believe with my whole heart that they exist is what’s key here.

However, the idea of putting up my own fruit and veg scares me. So many things can go wrong, from an exploding pressure cooker to botulism stemming from improperly sterilized tools. The act of canning seems a clear and present danger far more than anything zombie-related. Also? See:
Failure, My Garden, 2011–2012
. I don’t have any fresh produce to can; even the frozen bananas are gone now.

This is going to require some research.

F
our highly productive weeks of prepping later, I’m at lunch with the girls.

“You guys hear about the storm that’s supposed to hit New York? I wonder if it’ll impact our trip to Philly?” I ask.

Every year when Stacey’s new book comes out, she sponsors a preorder contest that culminates in the two of us heading to a different city to take a reader and his or her best friend to lunch. Last year, we visited Dallas, where I learned an important lesson
on why to never request that the stylist make your hair “big” while in Texas. This year’s winner lives in Philadelphia, and we’re going there week after next. (Shout-out to Jon!)

“I’m sure we’ll have no trouble. This hurricane will be like Irene,” Stacey says. “Everyone will panic and sandbag the hell out of the entrances to all the Starbucks and then it’ll be nothing.”

“I don’t know,” Tracey counters. Tracey is totally Team Fletch when it comes to disasters potentially leading to zombie wars. “What if it’s not? They’re calling it a superstorm.”

“No, they’re calling it a Frankenstorm, and now I can’t stop saying that word. Frankenstorm, Frankenstorm, Frankenstorm. I even said Frankenstorm in a dream last night,” I add. “Frankenstorm is supposed to turn the whole East Coast ass-over-teakettle. Read all about it on WeatherChannel.com.”

Stacey’s unmoved by my prowess in meteorology. (She’s previously been unmoved by my prowess in practicing medicine, stating that a broadband connection to WebMD doesn’t mean I’m a doctor.) (No free diagnosis for you, then!)

“Philly will be fine and New York will be fine,” Stacey assures me. She practically pats me on the head as she says it.

“You know, Karyn told me when she lived in Brooklyn, she had a hard time getting renter’s insurance because of hurricanes,” I say. “She was all, ‘But this is New York—we don’t have hurricanes.’ Then I said to her, ‘Doesn’t Brooklyn sit right on the ocean? Wouldn’t it stand to reason that could be a strike zone?’ She said the beach was a mile away, but it was a shitty beach, so it never really occurred to her that she could be impacted.”

“God, I love Karyn,” Gina says. “You talked to her lately?”

“Actually, Karyn and I e-mailed all day yesterday because I showed her this.” I gesture to the photo on my phone.

Tracey squints at the small screen. “Is this your basement?”

I can’t suppress my enormous grin or overwhelming sense of pride. “Indeed this is my basement, which is no longer just a repository for old Rollerblades and a place for dogs to poop. Check out my emergency readiness, bitches.”

The photo does no justice to what’s currently happening on the eight-foot-long span of shelves at the bottom of the stairs. I’ve been systematically snapping up and storing emergency food supplies.

What I’m doing
looks
like hoarding, but would a hoarder have an impeccably organized stash of two months’ worth of emergency rations?

Would a hoarder make sure she not only had shelf-stable regular milk (white and chocolate), but also soy milk, evaporated milk, sweetened condensed milk, and powdered milk?

Would a hoarder find and buy not only canned tuna, but also canned salmon, canned beef, canned turkey, canned chicken, canned ham, and canned bacon? (That’s right. Canned bacon. It’s a real thing.)

Would a hoarder keep a dozen cans of brown bread so her twelve jars of peanut butter, six jars of marshmallow fluff, three quarts of jelly, and industrial-size jar of Nutella wouldn’t have to be eaten by the spoonful? (Note: I have no issue with eating Nutella by the spoonful.)

Okay, a hoarder might well have all these items, but she likely wouldn’t
shelve them all lined up, labels out, by classifications such as “pasta” and “canned fruit” and “soups/chilis.” She damn sure wouldn’t keep them all organized on a spreadsheet by expiration date for proper stock rotation, either.

I started by purchasing a case of Beefaroni because it could—at least according to my experience coming home drunk from the bars in college—be eaten directly out of the can. I also bought a couple of cases of vegetables and tuna, and I figured that was an excellent start. After all, I wasn’t going to become one of those lunatics I watch on TV, right? It’s not like I’m stocking up on bullets for the cats.

Then I started researching how to create an emergency pantry, and I fell down the prepper rabbit hole when I realized exactly how woefully unprepared I was. Not only did I not have an nth of what I needed in emergency food stocks. I’d completely overlooked nonedible supplies, like those related to health and hygiene and cleaning. I found extensive lists about what items are most likely to disappear after a disaster. I assumed that there’d be a run on batteries and candles, but did you know that in post-Katrina New Orleans it was almost impossible to find stuff like writing paper and garden seeds and aluminum foil (for hats?) and dog food? I sure didn’t.

The more I read, the more I exercised the “buy now with 1-Click” option on Amazon, and my UPS guy is starting to get suspicious about all the clanking boxes full of heavy metal stuff every day.

And now?

Well, let’s just say that I’m ready for Frankenstorm, even if I do live a thousand miles away from the ocean. Also? I have a new respect for the participants I see on the show.

Except for the cat killer.

She’s still a jerk.

“Funny, I can’t recall an instance of Martha going all doomsday,” Stacey says. “Is she crocheting gas masks? Perhaps providing tips on
elegantly appointing your bomb shelter? This can’t possibly dovetail into your project.”

“
Au contraire
,” I reply. “Martha has actually done numerous shows about prepping. Look it up.”

This is a lie, but it
feels
true.

Stacey’s not convinced by my explanation, yet she does stop directly pursuing the Martha argument. She peers at the photo. “What are all these tiny boxes on the right side of the shelf?”

I tell her, “Sardines.”

“You
hate
sardines,” she says.

I shake my head and cross my arms. “Not true.”

“Pfft,
absolutely
true. When you used sardines to lure the Thundercats back home last summer, I clearly remember you almost horking when you got sardine juice on your hand.”

Ooh, she’s got me with her legal mumbo jumbo.

“Well, sort of true,” I admit. “But I don’t hate sardines if there’s no other source of food. See, my plan was to buy stuff that’s cheap and protein-packed, but not so tempting that I’ll want to wander down to the basement while on an Ambien bender. Also, this is a source of food for the cats, too. According to the Internet, sardines are a must-have in any competent prepper’s pantry.”

“According to the Internet, Elvis is alive and well and working at a Krispy Kreme in Michigan,” Stacey argues.

“The King did love his doughnuts,” Tracey reasons. “
I’m
really impressed with your stash, Jen.”

“Thank you. Then my sardines are your sardines and you’re welcome in my bunker,” I assure her.

Stacey simply rolls her eyes.

“Is there wine in your bunker?” Gina asks.

I nod. “Plenty. We have something like thirty bottles left over from our anniversary party.”

“Then I’m in, too,” Gina says.

“I’ve also stocked up on various inexpensive vodkas and tequila for bartering and fuel,” I admit. “Between my booze cache and sardine surplus, I plan on making my fortune on the black market when the balloon goes up.”

“You let me know how that works out for you.” Stacey snorts.

The smug is strong in this one.

“Oh, really? Okay, then—if Frankenstorm knocks us on our asses or if the Huns invade Chicago or something and you’re like, ‘Jen, Jen, we’re starving. Can we come to your house?’ I’m going to be all, ‘Sardines aren’t so funny now, are they?’”

“I promise to apologize to your sardines if the Huns invade,” Stacey assures me.

“Fine. Then you can share my sardines when the time comes,” I concede.

But she’s not having any of my Pop-Tarts stash.

That’s for damn sure.

F
rankenstorm, now known as Hurricane Sandy, doesn’t impact our trip to Philly, but the nor’easter that follows it does, and now we won’t make it to Philly until next year. In the storm, Karyn’s old hurricane-proof neighborhood is slammed, as is so much of the rest of New York and New Jersey.

I don’t have anything funny to say about the hurricane or its aftermath. There’s no feeling of impotence greater than sitting on a basement full of bounty with no way to directly share it with those in need. Fortunately, some industrious Brooklyn residents found a way to set up Amazon
registries so donors could send items directly to those in need. (The item I donated the most? Ironically, new underwear.)