Martha Stewart Quotes

I love the challenge of starting at zero every day and seeing how much I can accomplish.

Sighing dismally, she acknowledged that some things just weren't humanly possible - not even Martha Stewart could fold fitted sheets.

I told him I had always kept my inner Martha Stewart chained in the basement, but for his sake I would set her loose.” ~ Haven Travis

I imagined Martha Stewart trying to take over Pops kitchen. That would be better than Godzilla vs. Mothra

Fuck you, human. (Phoenix) Wow, boys and girls, they’re just so inviting, aren’t they. Martha Stewart would be proud. (Susan)

You are a nice person, and you’re also full of anger. You’re a walking tangle of contradictions. That’s okay. Most of us are like that. Women, most of all. How could we not be? People want us to be sexy warriors who roll over and play dead on command. They want us to be flirty burlesque dancers in burkas, aggressive conquistadors with cookies in the oven, Dorothy Parker meets Dorothy Gale, Sandra Bernhard meets Sandra Dee, Kristen Stewart meets Martha Stewart.

If you try to make a shrimp boil, but the bag of spices bursts, and so you just toss it in along with whatever spices you can find in the pantry--you can make homemade pepper spray. Unintentionally. And everyone at your dinner party will run outside for the next hour, coughing and tearing up as if they've been maced, because technically they kind of have been, because mace was one of the spices I found in the panty. I blame whoever makes spice out of mace, and I remind my gasping dinner guests that even if I did mace them, I did it in an old fashioned, homemade, Martha Stewart sort of way. With love.

Every inch of the house is covered in flowers and lace and screams tacky. It's like Martha Stewart vomitted, and this is the crap that came out.

The more you adapt, the more interesting you are.

Certainly, the average fashion magazine gives women ridiculous relationship advice that makes it easy to understand why women are so eager to overcompensate: “Play hard to get, then cook him a four-course meal … bake him Valentine’s cookies with exotic sprinkles shipped from Malaysia (just like Martha Stewart). Don’t forget the little doilies and the organic strawberries that you drove two hours to get. Then serve it all to him on the second date, wearing a black lace nightie.” And what is this a recipe for? Disaster.

For stalker food, Martha Stewart is the woman to go to.

Exactly; just because I like to suck dick doesn't mean I'm Martha Stewart in the kitchen.

I blame whoever makes spice out of Mace, and I reminded my gasping dinner guests that even if I did Mace them, I did it in an old-fashioned, homemade, Martha Stewart sort of way. With love.

As with all my new pets, I gently bit each kitten on the face. This is how I let my animals know that I am now their mother.

What Martha Stewart-like demon of a Stepford wife is possessing me?

Not easy having her for a mom. When did her ambitions die? If I had to guess, the day she graduated from Martha Stewart’s School for Stepford Housewives. Never inspirational, she’s more of an embarrassment for an already unpopular kid like me. What can I say? I’ve got plain-and-ordinary running through my veins. Maybe that’s why I can’t shake this stench of unremarkable. It goes back generations.

Fuck Martha Stewart! Martha Stewart can kiss my shiny plastic butt! Here I am, slaving a way over a hot stove, making cookies... making Swedish meatballs, and for what? A man who doesn't appreciate me! For a man that can't even wash one fucking dish! For a man who isn't even a man at all where it counts, if you get my drift! -to Jade- Take it from me honey, plastic is no substitute for a nice hunk of wood!

Don't give up. Defend your ideas, but be flexible. Success seldom comes in exactly the form you imagine.

Your like Martha Stewart on crack,” my neighbor shouted as I stuck another cardinal in with the daisies.

I once read that Martha Stewart never wears a bathrobe. Not that I like Martha Stewart, nobody likes Martha Stewart, I don’t think even Martha Stewart likes Martha Stewart.

Fuck Martha Stewart. Martha's polishing the brass on the Titanic. It's all going down, man. So fuck off with your sofa units and Strinne green stripe patterns.

Inside we found the TV rooms packed, because a jury had found Martha Stewart guilty on four counts of obstructing justice and lying to investigators about a well-timed stock sale. The style diva was going to have to do fed time. Her case had been followed with keen interest at Danbury—most prisoners thought she was being targeted because she was a famous female: “Guys get away with that shit all the time.

Loving yourself is good for your health.

There is also the ceaseless outpouring of books on toilet training, separating one sibling's fist from another sibling's eye socket, expressing breast milk while reading a legal brief, helping preschoolers to "own" their feelings, getting Joshua to do his homework, and raising teenage boys so they become Sensitive New Age Guys instead of rooftop snipers or Chippendale dancers. Over eight hundred books on motherhood were published between 1970 and 2000; only twenty-seven of these came out between 1970 and 1980, so the real avalanch happened in the past twenty years. We've learned about the perils of "the hurried child" and "hyperparenting," in which we schedule our kids with so many enriching activities that they make the secretary of state look like a couch spud. But the unhurried child probably plays too much Nintendo and is out in the garage building pipe bombs, so you can't underschedule them either. Then there's the Martha Stewartization of America, in which we are meant to sculpt the carrots we put in our kids' lunches into the shape of peonies and build funhouses for them in the backyard; this has raised the bar to even more ridiculous levels than during the June Cleaver era.

My point is, I love gardening as a hobby. Right now in our garden, Portia and I are growing tomatoes, peppers, zucchini, beets, eggplant, basil, and a whole assortment of herbs. It smells nice, it looks nice, and I can't tell you how satisfying it is to be able to host a dinner party and offer my quests the literal fruits of my labor. (As it turns out, these are very different than the fruits of one's loins. At a recent dinner party, I accidently asked Martha Stewart how she was enjoying the fruits of my loins and she nearly choked on her stew.)

This is the “woman’s pluck” story, the dust-bowl story, the burying-your-child-on-the-trail story, the I-will-never-go-hungry-again story, the Mildred Pierce story, the story about how the sheer nerve of even professionally unskilled women can prevail, show the men; the story that has historically encouraged women in this country, even as it has threatened men. The dreams and the fears into which Martha Stewart taps are not of “feminine” domesticity but of female power, of the woman who sits down at the table with the men and, still in her apron, walks away with the chips. 2000

You spent so much time being a hostess you forgot to be a woman. And now the time is right for making love, but your vagina is a mess. I've been there... and it's not a good thing. You have got to remember Party Rule #1: There is no party as important as the party you're about to throw in your vagina. " -- Jon Stewart, "Martha Stewart's Vagina

My staged food pictures put Martha Stewart to shame." "Yeah? Well, people are too busy actually eating our food to 'gram it, so.

The monkey village was like the world’s coolest tree house crossed with something out of a Swiss Family Robinson theme party thrown by Martha Stewart.

Jesus. It looked like someone had died and made Martha Stewart queen.

I think that kind of crime might earn you a spot in Martha Stewart’s prison cell.

I think credibility died of shame around 1986, just as all those sixties war protesters and fearless battlers for racial equality were discovering junk bonds, Martha Stewart Living, and the StairMaster.

Some car had hit it after all, because it hadn’t had the courage to honor its own correct instinct. And I began to cry because I had this thought about people, that they do this all the time, deny the wise voice inside them telling them the right thing to do because it is different. I remembered once seeing a tea party some little girls had set up outside, mismatched china, decorations of a plucked pansy blossom and a seashell and a shiny penny and a small circle of red berries and a fern, pressed wetly into the wooden table, the damp outline around it a beautiful bonus. They didn’t consult the Martha Stewart guide for entertainment and gulp a martini before their guests arrived. They pulled ideas from their hearts and minds about the things that gave them pleasure, and they laid out an offering with loving intent. It was a small Garden of Eden, the occupants making something out of what they saw was theirs. Out of what they truly saw.

Just in time, Evie,” Selena said. “I’ve got everything ready.” I surveyed the outdoor table, immaculately set with nice silver and crisp napkins. Covered dishes steamed with mouthwatering aromas. “We’re having quail, asparagus, and mushroom risotto. Hot apple cobbler for dessert.” I smiled thinly. Martha Stewart called, wants her shtick back. “Can I help?” Jackson snorted. And Selena play-slapped his chest, like he was her mischievous boyfriend. At that, the initial mrowr pfft pfft I’d felt transformed into I will cut a bitch.

The decor was nice in a fake-rustic, Martha Stewart sort of way. The furniture was what they called “simple country” where the look was indeed simple and the price outrageous. Lots of pines and wickers and antiques and dry flowers. The smell of potpourri was strong and cloying. They

The Four Loves Killers of the Flower Moon Crazy Rich Asians The Screwtape Letters Rebecca Martha Stewart’s Homekeeping Handbook Sense and Sensibility Number the Stars The Awakening of Miss Prim The Hiding Place Church of Spies: The Pope’s Secret War Against Hitler Animal Farm Alice in Wonderland All Quiet on the Western Front And Then There Were None Antony and Cleopatra

I was splayed on my bed in sweats, staring at the ceiling, when suddenly I gave birth to The Idea: one area of the country club would be filled with gold bamboo chairs, architecturally arranged orchids and roses, and antique lace table linens. Violins would serenade the guests as they feasted on cold tenderloin and sipped champagne. Martha Stewart would be present in spirit and declare, “This is my daughter, whom I love. In her I am well pleased.

Replaying in my mind the Martha Stewart, Leonidas Young, and Scooter Libby cases, I argued that if we weren’t going to hold retired generals and CIA directors accountable for blatantly lying during investigations, how could we justify jailing thousands of others for doing the same thing? I believed, and still believe, that Petraeus was treated under a double standard based on class. A poor person, an unknown person—say a young black Baptist minister from Richmond—would be charged with a felony and sent to jail.

(We had one guy who killed a woman and made meatloaf out of her.) And they interviewed the guy, George, and he was like, ‘Yeah, she was a pain in the ass and I beat her and, you know, I finally cracked her over the head and she died. I didn’t know what the hell to do with her. Well, Christ, George, I mean… Couldn’t ya—give her a Viking burial or something? You didn’t have to cook the poor woman down like Martha Stewart, for God’s sake. For meatloaf. I love meatloaf. I do. But I was off it for a long time after that.

Every new generation of women, it seems, feminist and housewife alike, is encouraged by popular culture to disavow its forebears and rebrand itself as an all-new, never-before-seen generational phenomenon, completely different in every way from what came before. The 'housewives' of the 1970s gave way to the Martha Stewart 'homemakers' of the 1980s, then the 'soccer moms' of the 1990s, then the stay-at-home moms of the 2000s. Next may come the homeschooling homesteaders of the impending post-apocalypse - who knows? What's significant is that the cycle of idealization, devaluation, and revision gives an appearance of progress, of superficial change, that distracts us from the big picture.

The absolute success of these two movements is such that at this stage, "indie" and "yuppie" are meaningless designators. The yuppie aesthetic of connoisseurship has infiltrated everywhere and now there is only--for many of us--either luxury gelato or food made of chemical waste. Ikea, Martha Stewart, and Whole Foods make yuppiedom no longer a chic and extravagant choice but an enforced mode. It's either that or eat at a toxic toilet such as McDonald's. The indie aesthetic is likewise de rigueur. H&M, Urban Outfitters, and American Apparel sell the floppy "Brit on a holiday" look to all Americans. Radiohead and Arcade Fire music is blasted from speakers at stadiums. For many poor souls, there is no alternative to the alternative.

CHAPTER SEVEN KIRA Just about the only perk a weekend in jail offers is not having to cook for small children. I’d been home approximately five hours, and I was already girding my loins for the nightly battle over food. Yes, yes, I know. Perfect mothers cook perfect meals, but I despise cooking for my children. Every night I had to marshal all the resources at my disposal not to give in to the temptation to throw frozen chicken nuggets at them and call it a day. Everything I put on their plates looked “funny,” or felt “slimy,” or was touching something and “ruining” everything. Back when Miles and I were first married, I used to make these incredible meals straight out of Martha Stewart. He’d ooh and aah and eat everything (never gaining a single ounce), and the applause made it worthwhile. Now, a bit more of my soul died every time I carried the children’s plates to the sink, still with more than half the food present and accounted for. Both kids would be digging in the pantry for Goldfish in a matter of minutes.

Marlboro Man was out of town, on a trip to the southern part of the state, looking at farm ground, the night I began conceiving of the best way to arrange the reception menu. I was splayed on my bed in sweats, staring at the ceiling, when suddenly I gave birth to The Idea: one area of the country club would be filled with gold bamboo chairs, architecturally arranged orchids and roses, and antique lace table linens. Violins would serenade the guests as they feasted on cold tenderloin and sipped champagne. Martha Stewart would be present in spirit and declare, “This is my daughter, whom I love. In her I am well pleased.” Martha’s third cousin Mabel would prefer the ballroom on the other end of the club, however, which would be the scene of an authentic chuck wagon spread: barbecue, biscuits and gravy, fried chicken, Coors Light. Blue-checkered tablecloths would adorn the picnic tables, a country band would play “All My Exes Live in Texas,” and wildflowers would fill pewter jugs throughout the room. I smiled, imagining the fun. In one fell swoop, our two worlds--Marlboro Man’s country and my country club--would collide, combine, and unite in a huge, harmonious feast, one that would officially usher in my permanent departure from city life, cappuccino, and size 6 clothes.

My room had a balcony where I could watch the setting sun flood the desert floor and burnish the golden slopes of the MacDonnell Ranges beyond – or at least I could if I looked past the more immediate sprawl of a K-Mart plaza across the road. In the two million or more square miles that is the Australian outback, I don’t suppose there is a more unfortunate juxtaposition. Allan was evidently held by a similar thought, for a half hour later when we met out front he was staring at the same scene. ‘I can’t believe we’ve just driven a thousand miles to find a K-Mart,’ he said. He looked at me. ‘You Yanks have a lot to answer for, you know.’ I started to protest, in a sputtering sort of way, but what could I say? He was right. We do. We have created a philosophy of retailing that is totally without aesthetics and totally irresistible. And now we box these places up and ship them to the far corners of the world. Visually, almost every arrestingly regrettable thing in Alice Springs was a product of American enterprise, from people who couldn’t know that they had helped to drain the distinctiveness from an outback town and doubtless wouldn’t see it that way anyway. Nor come to that, I dare say, would most of the shoppers of Alice Springs, who were no doubt delighted to get lots of free parking and a crack at Martha Stewart towels and shower curtains. What a sad and curious age we live in. We

Anyone want to help me start PAPA, Parents for Alternatives to Punishment Association? (There is already a group in England called ‘EPPOCH’ for end physical punishment of children.) In Kohn’s other great book Beyond Discipline: From Compliance to Community, he explains how all punishments, even the sneaky, repackaged, “nice” punishments called logical or natural consequences, destroy any respectful, loving relationship between adult and child and impede the process of ethical development. (Need I mention Enron, Martha Stewart, the Iraqi Abu Ghraib prisoner abuse scandal or certain car repairmen?) Any type of coercion, whether it is the seduction of rewards or the humiliation of punishment, creates a tear in the fabric of relational connection between adults and children. Then adults become simply dispensers of goodies and authoritarian dispensers of controlling punishments. The atmosphere of fear and scarcity grows as the sense of connectedness that fosters true and generous cooperation, giving from the heart, withers. Using punishments and rewards is like drinking salt water. It does create a short-term relief, but long-term it makes matters worse. This desert of emotional connectedness is fertile ground for acting-out to get attention. Punishment is a use of force, in the negative sense of that word, not an expression of true power or strength. David R. Hawkins, M.D., Ph.D. author of the book Power v. Force writes “force is the universal substitute for truth. The need to control others stems from lack of power, just as vanity stems from lack of self-esteem. Punishment is a form of violence, an ineffective substitute for power. Sadly though parents are afraid not to hit and punish their children for fear they will turn out to be bank robbers. But the truth may well be the opposite. Research shows that virtually all felony offenders were harshly punished as children. Besides children learn thru modeling. Punishment models the tactic of deliberately creating pain for another to get something you want to happen. Punishment does not teach children to care about how their actions might create pain for another, it teaches them it is ok to create pain for another if you have the power to get away with it. Basically might makes right. Punishment gets children to focus on themselves and what is happening to them instead of developing empathy for how their behavior affects another. Creating

I filled the vase with water and dropped the aspirin in before arranging the flowers. I turned to show my work to Mimi for approval. “Not Martha Stewart,” I confessed. “But not bad, right?” “Oh, goodness dear,” Momma crooned. “Martha Stewart is a Yankee. Let’s not try to emulate her, shall we?” “She’s a Yankee that went to prison,” Mimi added. “I beg your forgiveness, ladies,” I said, bowing my head with a grin.

Martha Stewart’s “Pretty things for anal people” collection.

Replaying in my mind the Martha Stewart, Leonidas Young, and Scooter Libby cases, I argued that if we weren’t going to hold retired generals and CIA directors accountable for blatantly lying during investigations, how could we justify jailing thousands of others for doing the same thing?

Martha Stewart lied, blatantly, in the justice system. To protect the institution of justice, and reinforce a culture of truth-telling, she had to be prosecuted.

Honestly—and maybe some of you can relate to this—I just can’t stand the pressure of being responsible for hosting a memorable (and not in a bad way) evening. Martha Stewart, bless her heart, intimidates me. That level of entertaining is so over my head: What do you mean, you didn’t dig up your own potatoes for this dish? You didn’t make the doilies? The plates didn’t just come out of a kiln? I love Martha, but it gets ridiculous.

Girls like me used the Web in all the ways our parents feared. We read anarchist manifestos and exchanged lurid porn with grown men. We ruined perfectly good bottles of vodka trying to make absinthe with recipes we learned on Gothic Martha Stewart.

Once you realize that you have identified a passion, invest in yourself. Figure out what you need to know, what kind of experience and expertise you need to develop to do the things that you feel in your heart you will enjoy, and that will sustain you both mentally and economically.” –MARTHA STEWART

On what to keep, Martha Stewart says to ask yourself a few questions: “How long have I had it? Does it still function? Is it a duplicate of something I already own? When was the last time I wore it or used it?” On how to organize what you keep, she recommends “grouping like things together,” and her fellow experts agree.

Soup in the crockpot? This guy looked like Jason Momoa, cooked like Martha Stewart, and was as smart as a cyber-savvy Sherlock Holmes.

Who was this guy? she found herself asking. Looks like Paul Bunyan, runs a bar, has all these guns, and cleans and launders like Martha Stewart.

Alberto’s predicament dramatizes a core principle: making a statement to the police is never --never --in a criminal defendant’s interest. Talking to the cops is generally a bad idea, even if you’re the one who called them. This is true whether you are Martha Stewart, who secured a jail term when she foolishly decided to make a voluntary statement to the authorities, or Alberto, who fancied himself a clever jailhouse lawyer, confident that he could get even by manipulating the cops. It is one of the few things that every criminal lawyer will agree on: in the crucible of police interrogation, the police will always win.

Some people thought of vampires as rock stars, but really they were more like Martha Stewart. Vampires were prissy. They had to follow rules. They had to look good.

These witches were like Martha Stewart on crack.

Martha?” Toby asked. “Is that … Martha Stewart?” “Heavens, no! I mean the real Martha. Pullen, of course. The Queen of Sewing.

wonder if Martha Stewart’s guests are greeted at the door with her sweating, crying, and shouting, ‘Here’s a recipe; get to work or we’re never eating Thanksgiving dinner!’” I

you will likely have some stickiness to clean later.bSome folks like the slow cooker plastic

Wall Street: I’d start carrying guns if I were you.      Your annual reports are worse fiction than the screenplay for Dude, Where’s My Car?, which you further inflate by downsizing and laying off the very people whose life savings you’re pillaging. How long do you think you can do that to people? There are consequences. Maybe not today. Or tomorrow. But inevitably. Just ask the Romanovs. They had a nice little setup, too, until that knock at the door.      Second, Congress: We’re on to your act.      In the middle of the meltdown, CSPAN showed you pacing the Capitol floor yapping about “under God” staying in the Pledge of Allegiance and attacking the producers of Sesame Street for introducing an HIV-positive Muppet. Then you passed some mealy-mouthed reforms and crowded to get inside the crop marks at the photo op like a frat-house phone-booth stunt.      News flash: We out here in the Heartland care infinitely more about God-and-Country issues because we have internal moral-guidance systems that make you guys look like a squadron of gooney birds landing facedown on an icecap and tumbling ass over kettle. But unlike you, we have to earn a living and can’t just chuck our job responsibilities to march around the office ranting all day that the less-righteous offend us. Jeez, you’re like autistic schoolchildren who keep getting up from your desks and wandering to the window to see if there’s a new demagoguery jungle gym out on the playground. So sit back down, face forward and pay attention!      In summary, what’s the answer?      The reforms laws were so toothless they were like me saying that I passed some laws, and the president and vice president have forgotten more about insider trading than Martha Stewart will ever know.      Yet the powers that be say they’re doing everything they can. But they’re conveniently forgetting a little constitutional sitcom from the nineties that showed us what the government can really do when it wants to go Starr Chamber. That’s with two rs.      Does it make any sense to pursue Wall Street miscreants any less vigorously than Ken Starr sniffed down Clinton’s sex life? And remember, a sitting president actually got impeached over that—something incredibly icky but in the end free of charge to taxpayers, except for the $40 million the independent posse spent dragging citizens into motel rooms and staring at jism through magnifying glasses. But where’s that kind of government excess now? Where’s a coffee-cranked little prosecutor when you really need him?      I say, bring back the independent counsel. And when we finally nail you stock-market cheats, it’s off to a real prison, not the rich guys’ jail. Then, in a few years, when the first of you start walking back out the gates with that new look in your eyes, the rest of the herd will get the message pretty fast.

If you see my name on one more police report, you're going to put me under house arrest and sentence me to watch Martha Stewart Living 24/7.

Martha Stewart

And with that, my friend drove away and left me at the gates of hell, deceptively decorated to look like a Martha Stewart magazine.

Yeah, and from what you said, she doesn’t run a major corporation, or have kids. That makes a difference. I don’t know how you juggle what you do. And I’ll bet you weren’t a ‘terrible wife,’ no matter what your ex says. I have more faith in you than that.” He could already sense that she was a perfectionist about everything she did, and tried her best, or she wouldn’t have had the job she did, and healthy kids. “Thanks for the vote of confidence. But he may be right. He’s still pissed off about it, even now that he’s married to ‘Martha Stewart.’ ” She had a feeling the name was going to stick now that he’d come up with it. “That’s pretty pathetic if he’s still carrying a grudge, after how long?” “Six years.” “And what about you? Anyone important in your life since?” He acted like a reporter even when he was out for dinner, and he wanted to know everything about her. She liked finding out about him too, and he was forthcoming about himself. He didn’t seem like a man who had secrets, and he appeared to have good insights into himself. He wasn’t unaware and knew who he was and how he related to other people.

Martha Stewart food lends itself to elaborate, conspicuous consumption and is based upon an invented artisan ethos fully realized only by those who have the luxury to perform the work—whipping cream by hand, for example, or making crackers from scratch.

Somewhere in the night, sounds came from Jack’s bed. He was fitful, rolling around, muttering in his sleep. Mel went to the bed, sat on the edge and touched his brow. He grumbled something unintelligible and curled toward her, grabbing her and pulling her into the bed. He rested his head against her. She took his head in the crook of her arm and lay down beside him. “It’s okay,” she said to him. And he quieted at once, draping an arm over her. She pulled the comforter over them both and snuggled up to him. She sniffed the pillow—Downy. Who was this guy? she found herself asking. Looks like Paul Bunyan, runs a bar, has all these guns, and cleans and launders like Martha Stewart. In his sleep, he pulled her closer. His breath smelled of Scotch. Whew, she thought. She put her face against his hair, which smelled of his musk combined with the wind and trees. She inhaled deeply; she’d already begun to love his particular scent and the taste of his mouth. She had wondered what was under the shirt—a nice mat of brown hair on his chest and a couple of tattoos. On his upper left arm an eagle, globe and anchor, almost as big as her hand. On the upper right, over a ribbon, the words: SAEPE EXPERTUS, SEMPER FIDELIS, FRATRES AETERNI She

Even with all the lights off, the room was as bright and insistent as Martha Stewart’s smile.

Martha Stewart these days. She supposes it could be a gay man, that might be a nice change.

Like Snoop Dogg and Martha Stewart: Freaky, but it works.

There’s a reason Martha Stewart raises chickens and not ducks. Ducks consume a lot of food and water, and it all has to go somewhere. To put it plainly, these fowl produce copious amounts of wet droppings that have a truly unpleasant odor.

The world saw me as a big, scary black man. Meanwhile, here I am, shopping on Pottery Barn for faux fur bathrobes and table linens. There were few things I enjoyed more in life than a beautifully set table. Add candles and a centerpiece and I was in heaven. I will sit at a table and eat shitty food if there’s a silver napkin ring, no lie. Don’t get me started on Martha Stewart Living, domestic porn at its finest.

Martha Stewart enseña cómo hacer tu casa y tu vida increíbles. Ella revela sus secretos. A la gente le encanta que reveles tus secretos, te retribuyen comprando tu obra.

[When asked, "What's the craziest thing you have in your bathroom?"] "My cat

Look what he married. Would you want to be her? She’s a nice woman, but her greatest accomplishment is making three-dimensional snowflakes and Easter bunnies from Martha Stewart’s book. Come on, Fiona, you don’t want to be that.

SMART SUBSTITUTION Next time you make a sandwich wrap, reach for lettuce leaves instead of a flatbread or tortilla. This recipe is based on a popular Korean dish (ssam bap) that has a spicy filling of beef and fresh herbs encased in lettuce. Cellophane noodles, tossed with a bit of oil and scallions, round out the meal.

GOOD TO KNOW Cod and other lean, firm-fleshed fish are good choices for steaming, since they stay moist after cooking. To steam in the oven, combine fillets in a baking dish with rice vinegar (or another flavorful liquid, such as lemon juice or wine), oil, and aromatics, then cover the dish tightly to trap in moisture as the fish cooks.

Me and Jordan may not be who we used to be, but we still fit together. Like Snoop Dogg and Martha Stewart: Freaky, but it works.

A fishmonger told me about a Martha Stewart tip for keeping grilled fish from sticking to a barbecue: rub the grill with a raw potato sliced down the middle

I bought copies of Martha Stewart Living and quickly gained an appreciation for her misunderstood perfectionism. It made complete sense to me, overcompensating for one’s dark soul with tres leches cupcakes and clafouti

Martha Stewart is the Martha Stewart of weed. She’s been hanging out with that Snoop Doggy Dog for a long time now.

Yes, grandma. I’m positive. I should’ve made you pop a Xanax before we left.” “But then I wouldn’t have been able to drive.” “I hate to break it to you, but I’m driving.” “You drive as well as you cook. I’m driving.” “Excuse me, Martha Stewart, but not everyone has the cooking gene.” “There’s no such thing as a cooking gene.” “There totally is. You’re Italian. It’s in your DNA.

We found the guest bedroom and I sat on the edge of the queen-size bed, bouncing up and down a little to test the comfort level. Definitely better than Shay’s couch. The room had been decorated in a mixture of blues and grays that I found soothing. I could easily live in this room. My aunt was saying something about hand-scraped hardwoods and Italian marble, but I ran over to check out the large walk-in closet. I practically wept with joy at the thought of not having to live out of my suitcases any longer. It was in that moment that I realized I would do whatever I had to do to become Tyler’s roommate. He wanted me to take care of his dog? I’d turn into Dr. Dolittle. He needed a clean home? Then I’d be . . . Marie Kondo? No, that was organizational stuff. Mary Poppins? She was the kid expert. Martha Stewart? More on the entertaining side of things. An image and a name flashed in my mind. Mr. Clean! I would be Mr. / Dr. Clean-Dolittle. Practically perfect in every way.

Sheriff Joe Arpaio, an anti-immigration figure and Trump supporter, got a pardon. So did Scooter Libby, the Bush administration leaker whom President Bush, a frequent target of Trump derision, had failed to pardon, and so did Dinesh D’Souza, the right-wing author. Martha Stewart was a possibility. So was the corrupt former Illinois governor Rod Blagojevich, who was brazen and overweening

England, the Humphry Reptons, the William Kents, the Capability Browns; and in France, the René de Girardins, the

BIBLIOGRAPHY Often the question of which books were used for research in the Merry series is asked. So, here is a list (in no particular order). While not comprehensive, it contains the major sources. An Encyclopedia of Faeries by Katharine Briggs Faeries by Brian Froud and Alan Lee Dictionary of Celtic Myth and Legend by Miranda J. Green Celtic Goddesses by Miranda J. Green Dictionary of Celtic Mythology by Peter Berresford Ellis Goddesses in World Mythology by Martha Ann and Dorothy Myers Imel A Witches’ Bible by Janet and Stewart Farrar The Fairy Faith in Celtic Countries by W. Y. Evans-Wentz Pagan Celtic Britain by Anne Ross The Ancient British Goddesses by Kathy Jones Fairy Tradition in Britain by Lewis Spense One Hundred Old Roses for the American Garden by Clair G. Martin Taylor’s Guide to Roses Pendragon by Steve Blake and Scott Lloyd Kings and Queens from Collins Gem Butterflies of Europe: A Princeton Guide by Tom Tolman and Richard Lewington Butterflies and Moths of Missouri by J. Richard and Joan E. Heitzman Dorling Kindersly Handbook: Butterflies and Moths by David Carter The Natural World of Bugs and Insects by Ken and Rod Preston Mafham Big Cats: Kingdom of Might by Tom Brakefield Just Cats by Karen Anderson Wild Cats of the World by Art Wolfe and Barbara Sleeper Beauty and the Beast translated by Jack Zipes The Complete Fairy Tales of the Brothers Grimm translated by Jack Zipes Grimms’ Tales for Young and Old by Ralph Manheim Complete Guide to Cats by the ASPCA Field Guide to Insects and Spiders from the National Audubon Society Mammals of Europe by David W. MacDonald Wicca: A Guide for the Solitary Practitioner by Scott Cunningham Northern Mysteries and Magick by Freya Aswym Cabbages and Kings by Jonathan Roberts Gaelic: A Complete Guide for Beginners The Norse Myths by Kevin Crossley Holland The Penguin Companion to Food by Alan Davidson

Jesus saw Jairus’ daughter waking up before He ever met Jairus. Jesus saw Lazarus standing outside of his tomb before Mary and Martha sent for Him.  Jesus saw Himself resurrected before He ever went to the Cross.