It wasn’t planned. I wasn’t hungry. I wasn’t even looking for a recipe. I was just trying to shove the junk drawer closed and the whole thing came unhinged—batteries, dog leashes, a single chopstick, that damn magnet from Provincetown that never sticks right. I sat on the kitchen floor, let the mess fall around me. That’s when I remembered them. Martha’s sausage balls. Something about cheddar and chaos felt right.
And it was cold. I mean that New England cold that leaks through windows no matter how many towels you shove at the corners. My fingers ached. The floor was too hard. But I still opened the freezer for sausage I didn’t even remember buying.
What The Original Looked Like
Her version’s clean. Of course it is. Tight little meat-cheese parcels that don’t sag or split. She wants you to mix flour with cayenne and order. Then toss in sharp cheddar—exact, grated. Onion, but only half. Sausage, but no casing. Melted butter like punctuation. Then roll them—“1 inch,” she says, like we all keep a ruler in the drawer I just destroyed.
Bake at 400°F. Golden. Precise. Snackable.
Like Martha ever just snacks.
What I Did Differently
I used the whole onion. Not out of rebellion. I just didn’t want to wrap half of it back in plastic again. It gets soggy. Makes the fridge smell like old apologies.
I didn’t melt the butter. Just threw it in cold, in tiny pieces. Figured my hands were warm enough to fix that.
Also—I didn’t roll them. I scooped. Used a tablespoon. Called it a day.
The Way It Happened in My Kitchen
Flour went in first. Then the baking powder, cayenne, pepper. No whisk. Just fingers.
Cheddar next—mine was pre-shredded. Forgive me. It was what I had. Clung to the flour like it belonged there.
Then came the sausage. Cold, fatty, unforgiving. I pressed it in like you press a grudge. The onion wept over everything. Butter went in last, stubborn little lumps.
Mae came in halfway through—looked at the bowl and said, “Is this the thing with cheese and regret?”
She wasn’t wrong.
I shaped them with that old tablespoon I melted once—broiler accident, long story, still use it.
They baked fast. The smell hit me before the timer. Like Sunday brunch at someone else’s house. The kind where you feel like a guest even if you bring the wine.
A Few Things I Learned
The bottoms crisped faster than the tops.
The onion kept them moist. I hate that word. But it did.
They didn’t need dipping sauce. Just silence and warmth.
Also, cayenne lingers. Especially when you forget you touched your face.
What I Did With the Extras
On a paper towel. On the counter.
Mae and I ate them with our fingers. The dog begged. I said no. Then gave him one. Then two.
She said they’d be good cold. I wouldn’t know. There weren’t any left.
Would I Make Them Again?
Yes. But only when I’m falling apart a little.
That’s What I Remember
The drawer’s still open. The magnet’s still crooked. But the kitchen smells like something warm won the argument.
If you want something creamier, I made Her Highness’s pimento cheese bake once that nearly broke my will—but worth it.
FAQs
A little. the cayenne gives them a slow burn, but nothing wild. mae said they were “kinda warm, like drama that’s not yours.”
I did. her highness probably wouldn’t, but it melted just fine and saved me five minutes of wrist pain.
Breakfast sausage, the kind in a tube. maple was what i had. weird at first, then addicting.
You’re supposed to. but if you mince it small and promise to stir well, i won’t tell. the goal’s just onion throughout, not judgment.
Check out More Recipes:
Martha Stewart Sausage Balls
Description
Sharp, spicy, and a little uneven—like most of my good ideas.
Ingredients
Instructions
- Make the flour mix: dumped the flour, salt, pepper, cayenne, and baking powder into the green pyrex. no whisk. just hands. the cheddar went in after—got coated fast, like it knew the drill.
- Add the fat and fire: tore the sausage into the bowl like i was mad at it. maybe i was. grated onion next—slipped, nearly lost a knuckle. butter went in cold. didn’t care. mixed the whole mess by hand until it clung like a memory.
- Shape the chaos: didn’t roll them. scooped with that warped tablespoon from the broiler incident. close enough to round. dropped them on parchment like they might walk away if i waited.
- Bake and breathe: oven at 400. tray in. stood there watching like it was a tv show. they browned fast. smelled like brunch at a place where no one asks how you’re doing. pulled them when the edges turned gold and the bottoms gave up their grip.
- Eat before thinking: let them sit a minute, then didn’t. mae took one. then three. i burned my tongue on the fourth and didn’t care. we didn’t use plates. didn’t talk much either. they were gone before the drawer was fixed.