Welcome to the Cannabis and Capitalism Era of Martha Stewart's Glorious Quarantine

In this, the fall of our quarantine, as one and all peer blearily ahead to the coming winter darkness yet kindle small hope for spring renewal deep in the gallows of secret hearts, we return, once again, to Martha Stewart, who offered salvation last summer from our quarantine woes. Stewart’s gospel may see us through the bitter days ahead.

“I have absolutely zero complaints about quarantine,” Stewart told a naysaying Philistine from the New York Times before cataloging the days of milk and honey she spends in the wilderness of her giant farm. The three disciples who originally found shelter from covid-19 in the comfort of Martha’s light have now grown to a more fitting gathering of twelve. In Martha’s pastoral monastery, they spend their days learning from her example of chastity, obedience, and stability with none of the tedious poverty that keeps other monks from true divinity:

“She showers, gets dressed and goes to the gym, where she attempts to replicate aerobic and resistance routines that she used to do with a trainer. By 7 a.m., when her crew arrives — it numbers around a dozen, these days — she’s written a to-do memo for the farmer, had a cappuccino and a green juice, and started her workday.”

As a reward for their faithful servility, bestowed upon them are the literal fruits of Martha’s labor in the form of cannabidiol candies and drops. According to Martha, these offerings result in fits of religious ecstasy to which she, as the messenger, is immune but balm the worried minds of her followers: “I pop 20 of them and just feel OK, but some of my friends do two and feel high, I don’t know why. It’s not high like a marijuana high. It’s a CBD high, like, relaxed.”

I’ll admit that I have been a Doubting Thomas in the past, but through the good word of Martha Stewart’s Instagram, I have seen the light. The only way through this dark winter of the soul is cannabis and capitalism.

Let us once again turn to the Apocrypha of Instagram to gather what proverbs we may through Martha’s scriptures.

“This is how I feel today,” begins the Parable of Grouchy Princess Peony. “Crushed into the corner of my newly upholstered federal sofa.” So sayeth Martha, so say we all.

“Watch me right now,” she commands in sharp relief to the crushing malaise of our feline grief smothered in the oppressive upholstery of boredom. “I am sharing my new fall products.” The thrill of her blessing—bedding, flameless candles, baskets—will lighten the burden on our hearts while grounding us through the tempest with warmth, eternal, yet flameless, flame, and receptacles for her bounty.

And finally, Martha hast preparest a table before us in the presence of our enemies, anointest our tongues with oil. Surely gummies and mercy shall follow all the socially distanced days of our lives: and we shall dwell in the house, scrolling Martha’s Instagram forever.