Mostly Martha

About a week ago I was at my sister-in-law's house. And I spotted this book.



It's a monstrously large book; I liked it because it explained everything. I mean everything. Martha's nothing if not thorough.

So I ordered it.

Because I really want to learn to cook. Properly. I think it's an important thing to know how to do. And I figured if Martha Stewart couldn't teach me, nobody could.

The book isn't cheap, but I found a brand new copy online for $10. Click. Click. I bought it.

Last Monday it came in the mail. I was really excited. I get excited when I get things in the mail. Especially things like magazines and books.

After the baby goes to bed, I pour myself a glass of wine and sit down on the couch. Okay, Martha, I think, show me what you got.

I read about the basics. What kinds of tools to have. What kinds of knives. Check. Check. How to sharpen them. And check.

I learn about herbs. What to do with them. How to prepare them. What they look like. All the photographs are stunning.

I'm getting really excited. I think about all the amazing meals I will prepare.

I finish my glass of wine, and read about citrus. How to zest. How to supreme. Wait... What? Supreme? Huh. I read about something called mirepoix. Mirepoix?

I pour a second glass of wine.

I studied French for 5 years and I never heard anything about mirepoix. Mirrrpwaaah.... I decide it sounds like a contagious disease from the 1800s.

Then I start the chapter on stocks. How to make your own stock. White Stock. Brown Stock. Veal Glace.

I finish the second glass.

When I start reading about fish fumet I'm done for. Fish Fumet. Fuuuumaaaay! I imagine myself going up to my local fishmonger and asking for a bunch of old fish bones and heads. Fish heads! For my Fish Fumet! From my fishmonger! I start laughing.

But I don't have a fishmonger. I try to stay away from mongers. Fishy or otherwise. I start a rhyme in my head.

Mirepoix and Fish Fumet
Veal Glace
Creme Brulee
Oh Hooray!
This is totally gay...

I close the book and realize I'm drunk.

Thanks, Martha.