I pride myself on being the writer in the family. But lately my husband has been threatening to write a book. He even has a title picked out - HOW MARTHA STEWART RUINED MY LIFE.

His newfound literary aspirations are due to my recent admiration for America's legendary queen of style and substance. The other day when I happily announced, "Just look at all the new foods we've been trying! We've broken out of our meat-and-potatoes rut," my husband pointed to the Martha Stewart Living magazine on the coffee table, and roared, "Yeah, and it's all HER fault!"

So he doesn't like change. Who knew?

The change started when I quit my job a few years ago to stay home to write. Writing eight hours a day isn't as glamorous as it sounds. Sure, you can sit around and work in your pajamas all day and never ever have to worry about combing your hair or wearing anything without an elastic waistband (my idea of heaven). But writing is hard work! You have to take plenty of breaks, drink numerous cups of coffee or tea, and snack several times a day just to keep your creative juices flowing.

I turned on the television one afternoon as I was making tea. There was Martha - demonstrating how to make lampshades out of string. I was hooked!

Now every afternoon I leave my computer, switch on the TV, and relax with Martha. Lately, she's been showing America how to "escape from the ordinary" with new taste sensations. As a result I've developed an intense fascination with root vegetables - my husband's worse nightmare.

"I refuse to eat anything with over five ingredients I can't identify!" he declared one evening.

I was ladling Martha's Fall Ragout (pronounced "Ragoo") into a bowl before him.

"Relax," I told him. "You've had these things before."

He eyed me suspiciously. "I only recognize the carrots!"

I decided to humor him. "Okay...let's just see what all is in here, shall we?"

He folded his arms across his chest. Our sons arrived at the table.

"What's going on?" asked Tyler.

"Nothing," I answered. "I'm just explaining dinner."

Tyler stared at his Ragout.

"Explaining it? We need directions or something?"

Our other son, Nick, sat quietly.

"No, I'm just identifying things for Dad," I said.

Nick piped up, "I see a carrot!"

"What's that round, yellowish thing?" asked Tyler.

"A parsnip," I said, "the white things are turnips."

My husband fished out two white lumps from his bowl. "What white things? I thought those were potatoes!"

"Those ARE potatoes, but these white things are turnips."

"What's this orange cube?" he asked with a frown.

"Butternut squash." I said. My head was beginning to ache.

My husband made a face.

"Uh...Mom, there's something lumpy at the bottom of my soup," Nick said sheepishly.

"It's not soup, dear, it's Ragout. And that's just the polenta."

Chairs scraped the floor as they all scooted back from the table.

"Po - what?" Nick asked.

"Just eat it!" I snapped. "And, I don't wanna hear another word. From anybody!"

The room was dead silent for the rest of the meal.

But I'll show 'em. Tomorrow night - it's rutabagas!

That oughta give my husband something to write about!



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