It was several years ago in December.  My family was gathered at my sister’s house for our annual holiday party – the one we don’t have anymore – and it was after dinner when we began to pass out presents.

I should probably backtrack and tell you that the latent ghost of Martha Stewart sometimes lives inside of me – or at least she sometimes visits like my body is a time-share in the Poconos.  I know, of course, that Martha Stewart is alive and therefore should not have a spiritual presence, but I think women like that – Connecticut-bred specimens who can fashion potpourri out of a pinecone and tree bark in seven seconds flat – are probably powerful enough to exist on more than one astral plane at a time.

My Martha gene came to me in a thunder-filled rush while I was wrapping gifts for the holiday.