THE MARTHA CLUB MASSACRE

My maternal grandmother belonged to an unusual group of church ladies known as The Martha Club. 

They took the name from a peculiar story in the New Testament in which Jesus visits the home of two sisters. Martha (the older, more practical one) finds herself slaving away in the kitchen preparing their meal, while Mary (the younger, prettier one) just sits at the feet of their guest, listening to his stories and laughing at his jokes.

And when Martha complains about the inequity of the situation, Jesus says something to the effect that everybody should do what they're good at.

Now, since these friends of my grandmother always found themselves in the kitchen at parish events, they'd long since decided to simply accept their lot and get on with the work.

But don't think for a minute that's all they did!

At least once a month, they gathered at one of their houses for a lavish luncheon, an exchange of gossip, a cocktail or two and a ferocious game of canasta. And the competition to outdo each other in the role of hostess was usually subtle but intense.

On these occasions, I noticed that my grandfather always managed to be somewhere else. But as a young lad with an appetite for cakes, pies and petit fours, I didn't mind hanging about and making myself available for handouts.

Then, one day, after an elegant meal, my grandmother served dessert - slices of her famous, homemade pumpkin pie. And with them, she brought to the table the very latest in modern consumer comforts: whipped cream in an aerosol container.

There were ooo's and ahhh's all around. And Grandma proceeded to give careful instructions on the use of this new technology.

"You have to be sure to tip the can so the nozzle is pointing down," she warned. "Otherwise the cream won't lather up and come out in a nice, fluted pattern." 

But in spite of this caution, the first lady to try, kept the can level and ended up shooting a big wet wad of cream straight into the face of the woman sitting opposite.

The whole table burst into howls of laughter. But Grandma didn't stay to enjoy it. She quickly ducked back into the kitchen and reappeared with a second can. 

She handed it to the woman still wiping cream from her face and with an evil grin asked her, "Are you going to take that?"

Apparently not, since the lady seized the can and returned fire. Then, before my astonished young eyes, a full-fledged whipped cream fight broke out. And not one elegantly-dressed matron at that table remained unblemished.

Suddenly, I was seized by that same fear that overcomes innocent bystanders when they find they've just been witnesses to a Mafia hit. 

So, I did my best to become invisible in the chaos and discretely retreated to the living room where I plopped myself down in front of the television. And when it came time for the women to set up their card table there, I decided to go outside and play.

But at the end of that day, I felt I'd come away with some valuable life lessons. 

I'd come to understand that a kitchen isn't always the boring place it's made out to be. And I'd gained a new perspective on the Martha's of this world - as well as a new appreciation and healthy respect for my grandfather's instincts.