I tried ‘Entertaining’ like Martha Stewart. It was exhausting and exhilarating.

In 1982, a Connecticut caterer named Martha Stewart published a book, “Entertaining,” that inspired a generation of women to level up their dinner party game, or at least feel like they should.

Martha, as we later came to know her after all the subsequent books (literally 100 of them) and the magazine and the television show — oh, and the stint in federal prison — made her perfectly curated mark with this guide to hosting parties at home. Next month, “Entertaining” is being rereleased after enjoying decades of popularity and some recent social media attention as people shared their attempts to buy rare and pricey used copies.

The tome contains general advice on hosting that may strike today’s readers as by turns universally applicable and absolutely bonkers. Yes, it’s good to make detailed lists, and to keep your guest lists varied, and to be reminded of the “whys” behind a beautiful setting: “A table is an empty space, and filling it is a gesture of thoughtfulness.” But then there are also plenty of over-the-top suggestions suited only for those with massive country homes, unlimited budgets and little sense. Sure, cocktails in a Victorian greenhouse would be delightful, if you happen to own such a thing. “If you have an orchard in blossom or a babbling brook, use it,” Martha advises. Okay, fine. But I definitely wouldn’t require the hired party staff to wear jaunty, themed “peasant, farmhand, Italian, Victorian, or maritime apparel,” as she suggests.

The book also includes menus for highly specific parties one might throw, including a few totally bananas ideas, such as a “midnight omelet supper for 30,” a “tempura party for 16” and a “sit-down country luncheon for 175.”

I wondered what it might be like to throw one of Martha’s circa 1982 parties. Egged on by my colleagues and with the delusion that it wouldn’t be such a big deal, I decided to find out for myself. I settled on a menu that seemed doable yet still aspirational: a “Neoclassic Dinner for Eight to Ten,” which re-creates a dinner Martha once hosted for visiting Chinese guests to show them “a typical but not ordinary” American meal.

I hewed exactly to the menu Martha prescribed. Cocktail hour would include homemade puff pastry straws and “fresh” nuts. To start dinner, there would be globe artichokes, steamed and smothered in a tomato-onion-herb mixture. For the main course, a roast leg of lamb would be the centerpiece, with sides of carrot puree, broiled tomatoes and homemade French bread. (Yes, you read that correctly.) Dessert was a gooseberry mousse, although I went with the Martha-approved substitute of raspberries in place of the impossible-to-locate main ingredient.

That all might sound simple enough. But the numbers tell another tale: Between the shopping (two trips to the grocery store, a visit to the market for meat and a stop at the wine shop, plus two Instacart orders) and the cooking, preparation and cleaning, I ultimately spent about 16 hours getting ready. The final tab was about $550, which included a $100 lamb leg and very nice wines, meaning you could spend far less with a few simple swaps.

I’m an experienced hostess and generally not particularly flappable, but I was nearly reduced to tears twice in the process.

My main takeaways? I’ll never again bake bread or make my own puff pastry dough for a party. (Maybe such exertions were essential in 1982, when locating terrific baguettes and sheets of frozen pastry wasn’t as easy as it is now?) Also, peeling tomatoes is a step too far for this home cook. Oh, and having time to shower and do your hair before guests arrive is a true luxury.

When planning the party, the first challenge was figuring out how to shoehorn eight people into my small Washington rowhouse dining room. I borrowed my husband’s desk from his office upstairs, cozied it up to our leafless table and added a cloth (unlike Martha’s, mine was not made of handmade lace, but rather sturdy cotton) over the whole thing. By angling the table, we could fit all the guests. The only problem was chairs. I had thought I would augment our usual four with a pair of antique chairs that usually hold clothes awaiting the laundry or stray books, but when I examined them, I realized they were far more rickety than I had realized, and I was plagued by images of guests landing on the floor in a pile of splinters.

I found the solution during a walk in my neighborhood. I passed by a Mexican restaurant, where the staff were getting ready for dinner service, and noticed the outdoor chairs: small-scale, sturdy plastic. I doubled back and asked the hostess where they were from, explaining that I was hosting a dinner party and something like that would be perfect. The chef overheard me and offered to loan them to me. Her generosity to a random neighbor saved the day.

Other challenges awaited. The artichokes in particular nearly took me down. To start, they seemed elusive. I couldn’t find them at my local grocer, so I placed an Instacart order for 10 of them. Only two showed up at my door. The second order was successful, but the specimens were truly gigantic, like something that might win a prize at the state fair. There was no way I could fit eight into a stovetop casserole dish, as Martha instructed, so I determined that they would instead go in the oven in two baking dishes covered with foil to steam them as they would have been, per the original instructions.

Then there was the matter of cleaning the devilish vegetables. It had been ages since I had prepped a whole artichoke. Several YouTube tutorials were of little help, and after a panicky series of messages, I hopped on an emergency video call with assistant recipes editor Olga Massov. She coached me (and buoyed my confidence), but the whole ordeal of scooping out the hairy cores and trimming the leaves took me well over an hour and left my hands with tiny scratches from the artichokes’ pointy bits. I’m fairly certain that artichokes, with their tough armor and finger-slicing leaves, would really prefer to be left alone — and I’m happy to oblige from here on out.

Artichoke drama included, I spent the better part of three days in a state of low-level list-checking panic, with Martha as my ever-present companion. (Well, her book, at least, although I swear I started hearing her voice in my head at some point in my frenzy.)

I have little recollection of the final stretch of preparation. But somehow, it all came together. The flowers and polished silver made it to the table. I glazed the lamb with melted guava jelly (and overcooked the meat just a tad), broiled the tomatoes and whipped the cream.

By the time the guests arrived, I was exhausted. I hadn’t had time to shower or fix my hair properly. I worried that I would nod off over the pureed carrots. But then something amazing happened: As my husband mixed gin and tonics and our guests’ laughter filled the patio, I looked around and realized that everyone seemed to be having a wonderful time — and suddenly, I was, too.

There was an unmistakable conviviality in the air. Was it the menu? The Bordeaux wine? Was it that the silver was freshly polished and the drinks were served in spotless crystal glasses?

Whatever the reason, it was there. And wouldn’t you know it, people loved the stupid artichokes. Conversation flowed over the lamb and the side dishes. The raspberry mousse was a hit. Guests left after midnight, smiling and full. Moments after shutting the door, my second wind gusted away and I soon collapsed into bed, with my saint of a husband on dish duty.

I am on the record as an enthusiastic advocate of simple entertaining. Having people over for a meal doesn’t have to be a fancy affair, I’ve always thought. And more than ever, it’s important to surround ourselves with people we like and love, to foster community and ward off the loneliness that threatens us — and if serving chips right out of the bag or ordering pizza for your guests makes that easier, well, I’m all for it.

But I will say that this experiment reminded me that sometimes, maximum effort pays off. It felt almost like our guests matched the energy I had put in with high spirits of their own. “People rose to the occasion,” as one friend put it when we recapped the party the next day.

I will probably never repeat the experience, at least not to the Martha-penned letter. But it might just prompt me to make my next gathering a little more elevated, even if I have to borrow a few chairs to cram into my dining room — at least until I have a Victorian greenhouse of my own.