Food-O-File

Last week's rant was provoked by a movie and this week it's a book. A good friend gave me a copy of Just Desserts (Wm. Morrow, $24, hard), Jerry Oppenheimer's ultra-trashy unauthorized biography of mega-famous lifestyle guru Martha Stewart. Though I'm no particular fan of the ubiquitous Stewart, I tore through the book like a bunch of poor relations at a catered wedding buffet. In his introduction, biographer Oppenheimer proudly proclaims his objectivity and states his book is based on over 400 documented interviews with siblings, relatives, past and present close friends, current and former associates, employees, and colleagues. According to the author, most were eager to comply with interview requests, pleased that "someone was finally going to tell the true story." The author was only too happy to oblige. Exposing the dirt on Martha appears to be a task he accomplished with great relish.

Martha Kostrya Stewart's life would already seem to be an open book. Her many best-selling books and magazines are filled with warm, folksy anecdotes about every aspect of her perfect life from her idyllic New Jersey childhood right through to her marvelous marriage. Oppenheimer used Stewart's stories as a basis for his research and quickly found that Mrs. Stewart's most artistic and fanciful creation may well have been the story of her own life. He carefully debunks as many Martha myths as he can, both personal and professional. The story really gets juicy in the late Seventies and early Eighties when Stewart began her catering business in the remodeled 19th century farmhouse at Turkey Hill Farm in Westport, Connecticut. The house and gardens at Turkey Hill became the stage set for the ongoing multimedia production that is the "lifestyle" of Martha Stewart, complete with a cast of characters that include disgruntled staff members, Stewart's abused husband, and neglected daughter.

Where Oppenheimer is concerned, there is no story too private or irrelevant and no grievance too petty to be rehashed in print. Her recipes don't work, she's a control freak who slaps employees and yells at her husband, she charged KMart $1,000 for tuna sandwiches and lemonade, she benefited personally from charity events. Blah, blah, blah, on and on. Some of the information is old news, such as the revelations of recipe plagiarism in her early works and the fact that her books were (and are) written by real writers who have always had to fight valiantly for credit and money. It's obvious Stewart's path to media superstardom is quite literally strewn with the discarded bodies of former friends, partners, and employees who found themselves on the receiving end of her questionable business dealings and awesome wrath.

The portrait of Stewart that emerges is one of a self-absorbed, driven, and desperately lonely woman with genuine skills and an overwhelming talent in the art of self-promotion. The author's interpretation of the events of her life often feels calculated to deliver low blows. He speculates that Stewart sought a hysterectomy at age 41 simply so she could live life with the same freedoms as a man, and he gleefully reports on her difficulty in finding a lasting relationship after her divorce, asserting that men find her intensity frightening.

The book left me feeling vaguely uneasy. I admire Stewart's drive and many abilities, while her overwhelming success reiterates to me how often our culture rewards form over substance. Her biographer's "ax" was readily apparent to me, however, and I finished the book with something approaching sympathy for Martha. It lasted a few hours until I saw her on television with a response to the "bad press." Without mentioning the book or its author, Stewart said, "I'm a journalist, and as a journalist, this kind of writing makes me embarrassed to be part of a profession that would write such crap." If that woman is a journalist, I'm a ballerina. Considering that she is the most successful purveyor of crap in this country, it's not surprising she recognizes it when she sees it.