Now, you may be wondering why I would be invited to appear on Martha Stewart's show. It seems someone gave her my cookbooks and she was interested. I finally agreed to go on TV if they would give me some professional make-up before the appearance. Last time I was on television, PARTNER suggested that I tart it up a bit next time the video cameras began to roll. (In other words, I looked like death-warmed-over.)I also made sure that I wasn't going to be on the hook for cookbooks for the entire audience.
To a normal person, that would seem to take care of the major hurtles, but mine were just beginning. There is this whole packing/luggage issue. I do not travel light. A weekend trip requires a large suitcase and hanging bag. There was no way I was going to New York without the comforts of home and plenty of clothes. I forgot to mention that the audience and guests were supposed to wear turquoise. I was hoping Martha would be sporting this big aqua sweater she has. Even if the camera added ten pounds to me, I'd still be looking buff compared to her.
Okay, so another minor problem is that I don't like to fly. I really hate airports and changing planes and delays and security machines and waiting in line and airplane food and just about anything else associated with flying. Oooh, I especially don't like it when the plane bounces around in a storm, or drops suddenly or when the guy next to you has body odor. I know you're amazed I ever made it to Europe, never mind New York.
The good news is that after surviving the packing/flight ordeal, I had a limo driver to the hotel. I know that most folks think that all the Nazis went to hide in South America, but they over-looked my heel-clicking driver, Hans. I had to remind myself that on the plus side, Hans spoke English and displayed dogged determination not to crash his Lincoln Towncar...which is more than I can say for some of the multi-national taxi drivers in NYC.
My hotel was one of those minimalist places. No cozy lobby. Just lots of sparse looking spaces, a 6-inch duvet and more fluffy towels than any human could need. I flicked on the automatic fireplace and disappeared into the duvet. I didn't want to think what room service would cost, but I figured that was Martha's problem. Still, I erred on the side of caution and ordered an omelet. You will be relieved to know that an English muffin, eggs and hot chocolate only cost $56. I ordered a wake-up call for 4 o'clock, but I shouldn't have bothered. Who could sleep the night before a day with Martha?
I mentally made a list of all the questions she might ask. What was my favorite chocolate? (Easy-peasy...Michel Cluizel 62%) Maybe she'd give the Aphasia Center a plug. Horrors...I bet she nails me on melting chocolate in the microwave. I'm sure she's a double-boiler gal. I hate silpats. She always uses them. Oh, what was the use! I don't make my own butter or grind and roast my own chocolate, so I'll be crushed under her holier-than-thou thumb. At least I won't have to hear, "It's a good thing." I think she quit that phrase when she went to prison.
I was up and dressed, wearing my version of make-up well before my 4:45 deadline. One is not late for Martha...or I imagine, Hans.
The night clerk, looking like a poster-child for Ralph Lauren cologne, became really interested when he found I was about to appear with Martha. Well, actually, I was supposed to bake with Martha. My saving grace was that it was an original recipe, Apricot Chocolate Souffle Pie, so I was hoping that she wouldn't be able to inform me how she usually made the pie. Just in case you're wondering...the pie does not have a traditional crust. I'm not dumb enough to make pie crust in front of the pie goddess. Anyway, the clerk was chatting me up. It seems Martha is his favvvvvorite. He was more than willing (God bless Tivo he hadn't missed an episode.) to regale me with the humiliations to which she had subjected her guests. This man was a font of information and I couldn't shut off the flow. I felt my limited self-confidence ebbing even further. I had that funny, grippy-feeling in my intestines. I glanced about for the nearest restroom. Of course, it was unisex. Just what one wanted during a time of bowel rebellion. As I was about to retreat, the doorman buzzed. I was bound for Chelsea Studios on West 26th. Fortunately, PARTNER chose that particular moment to give me a short course in snoring and I gratefully awoke. Well, I was almost a guest on Martha Stewart.
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