Martha to the Max:
Balanced Living for Perfectionists
This humorous self-help book is in multiple printings and translations. It's also the basis of Debi's most popular speaking topics. [more]
Holidays, Schmolidays
An epic tale of the quest for evaporated milk…and an attitude of gratitude.
One Thanksgiving Eve about 12 years ago, I smiled in welcome at unexpected guests while plotting how to get rid of them
After spending three hours that Wednesday shopping and cleaning for the traditional feast at my house, I finally wrestled my two little pilgrims into bed. Next on the list: an all-night kitchen stint to bake four pumpkin pies and modify a dinner roll recipe to surpass last year’s “Plymouth Rocks.” With luck, I could catnap before dawn. But when the doorbell rang, my plans for a happy holiday fluttered away like dry autumn leaves.
“Hi!” Barb bellowed as she, her husband Leroy and their rowdy twins elbowed through my front door. “Just thought we’d drop in!”
Within seconds, my almost-asleep children bounded from bed to offer bags of candy corn reserved for tomorrow. Within minutes, toys covered my living room and my tongue bled from biting it. And after an hour of hinting, “This is not a good time for a visit” and “I’m sorry I can’t offer you coffee,” I popped the question.
“Barb, don’t you have to get ready for Thanksgiving dinner tomorrow?”
“Not this year and what a relief!” she crowed. “We’re going to my in-laws’ house so I don’t have to cook or clean or a thing!” She smiled and patted her husband’s hand. “Tonight, we’re just going to relax and enjoy the holiday.”
“Not at my house, you’re not! Can’t you take a hint? Now pick up these toys, pack up your kids and hit the road!” I said in my dreams for weeks to come. At the time, I collapsed with silent disbelief into a chair. Barb mistook my catatonic gaze for unblinking interest and kept babbling. Her family departed eventually, leaving wall-to-wall clutter in their wake.
Anger overcame exhaustion for the fifth hour. I sugar-detoxed the kids and put them in bed (again), scooped up toys (again) and finally made it to the kitchen to start cooking.
There, I discovered that I had forgotten to buy evaporated milk. I called my working husband and asked him to get four cans after his shift. He brought condensed milk instead. Experienced cooks know this will not work. I accused him of having a condensed brain and stormed out to buy evaporated milk myself. I desperately roamed dark streets looking for the last open store with the last can of evaporated milk in the metro area. No luck.
Heading home, I griped about every stupid holiday on the calendar and having to do everything myself. Then I caught a glimpse of my angry expression in the rear view mirror. How could I, a normally loving wife and mother, harbor such a stinky attitude and then preach thankfulness to my kids? I parked the car in the driveway and sat.
“God,” I prayed, “I don’t feel thankful. I’m sorry, but that’s the truth. Please show me just one thing to be thankful for tonight.”
A moment or two passed and the sixth hour ended. Here’s what I noticed. My well-running and paid-for car. A not fancy but still warm and waiting home. Happy and healthy kids safe inside. A forgiving husband. A star-lit night. Crisp November air. A new calm in my heart.
This year will find me better prepared. But if you come to my door on Thanksgiving Eve, don’t expect me to let you in. I’ll be too busy counting my blessings…and my 87 cans of evaporated milk.
Copyright 2000 Debi Stack; excerpted from her book, Martha to the Max: Balanced Living for Perfectionists, (Moody Publishers). Contact Debi at debi@debistack.com.
Save $1 off the cover price!
Get FREE SHIPPING!
Autographed copies make great gifts!
Order here!