When we think of powerful and successful women, one of the names that comes to mind is that of Martha Stewart.
Besides being a well-known TV personality, she’s also a self-made billionaire, a writer, a businesswoman, and a former fashion model.
Being 82 doesn’t stop this incredible woman from living her life to the fullest.
Last year, she posed for the cover of Sports Illustrated in daring swimsuits and attracted the attention of many. She was praised for her bravery, her incredible figure, and the positivity she spread.
However, during her recent trip to the east coast of Greenland, she posted some photos and one of them made her fans mad.
It shows Stewart enjoying a cocktail, and the caption says, “End of the first zodiac cruise from @swanhelleniccruises into a very beautiful fjord on the east coast of greenland. We actually captured a small iceberg for our cocktails tonight.”
Her intention wasn’t probably to anger her fans with the word “small iceberg” for her drink, but it did evoke the ire of her followers.
In no time, comments started pouring in under her post with people hitting out at the fact that she’d referenced a small iceberg when the “ice caps are melting.”
“Martha the ice caps are melting don’t put them in your drink,” one Instagram user wrote.
Another added: “I generally love Martha and the excesses of her life because he’s about beautiful gardens, homes, and food, but wealthy white people drinking their iceberg cocktails while the planet is in flames is a bit tone deaf.“
“So as the climate warms due to the profits of a couple thousand people, billionaires vacation to the melting icebergs, scoop them up and use them to keep their cocktails cold. That sounds like a line from a dystopian novel. Can’t make this shit up lol,” a third quipped.
“Global warming and melting ice caps but we need glacier ice for cocktails?! Talk about tone def. Been a fan for years but I’ve seen enough caviar lately as I struggle to buy groceries that I’m out,” said a fourth.
In general, Martha is someone who is widely loved by many.
Speaking of the cover on Sports Illustrated for which she posed, she said on the Today show, “I didn’t starve myself, but I didn’t eat any bread or pasta for a couple of months.
“I went to Pilates every other day, and that was great; I’m still going to Pilates every other day ’cause it’s so great. And I just, I live a clean life anyway – good diet and good exercise and healthy skincare and all of that stuff.”
She also commented how fans responded to the “authentic” cover during her keynote speech at the Las Vegas event.
“The response to it was really encouraging because it made women of all ages feel like, ‘If she can do it, then I can do it too,’” Stewart noted.
She inquired, “What’s the price for the eggs?” The elderly seller responded, “0.25 cents per egg
The old egg seller, his eyes weary and hands trembIing, continued to sell his eggs at a loss. Each day, he watched the sun rise over the same cracked pavement, hoping for a miracle. But the world was indifferent. His small shop, once bustling with life, now echoed emptiness.
The townspeople hurried past him, their footsteps muffled by their own worries. They no longer stopped to chat or inquire about the weather. The old man’s heart sank as he counted the remaining eggs in his baskets. Six left. Just six. The same number that the woman had purchased weeks ago.
He remembered her vividly—the woman with the determined eyes and the crisp dollar bill. She had bargained with him, driving a hard bargain for those six eggs. “$1.25 or I will leave,” she had said, her voice firm. He had agreed, even though it was less than his asking price. Desperation had cIouded his judgment.
Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months. The old seller kept his promise, selling those six eggs for $1.25 each time. He watched the seasons change—the leaves turning from green to gold, then falling to the ground like forgotten dreams. His fingers traced the grooves on the wooden crate, worn smooth by years of use.
One bitter morning, he woke to find frost cIinging to the windowpane. The chill seeped through the cracks, settling in his bones. He brewed a weak cup of tea, the steam rising like memories. As he sat on the same wooden crate, he realized that he could no longer afford to keep his small shop open.
The townspeople had moved on, their lives intertwined with busier streets and brighter lights. The old man packed up his remaining eggs, their fragile shells cradled in his weathered hands. He whispered a silent farewell to the empty shop, its walls bearing witness to countless stories—the laughter of children, the haggling of customers, and the quiet moments when he had counted his blessings.
Outside, the world was gray—a canvas waiting for a final stroke. He walked the familiar path, the weight of those six eggs heavier than ever. The sun peeked through the clouds, casting long shadows on the pavement. He reached the edge of town, where the road met the horizon.
And there, under the vast expanse of sky, he made his decision. With tears in his eyes, he gently placed the eggs on the ground. One by one, he cracked them open, releasing their golden yoIks. The wind carried their essence away, a bittersweet offering to the universe.
The old egg seller stood there, his heart as fragile as the shells he had broken. He closed his eyes, feeling the warmth of the sun on his face. And in that quiet moment, he whispered a prayer—for the woman who had bargained with him, for the townspeople who had forgotten, and for himself.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, he turned away from the empty road. His footsteps faded, leaving behind a trail of memories. And somewhere, in the vastness of the universe, six golden yolks danced—a silent requiem for a forgotten dream.
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