The kitchen was already hot. not warm. hot. the kind of heat that makes your ankles sweat while you’re standing still. The pork belly was sprawled across my butcher block like it owned the place. and maybe it did.
I had jazz on because silence felt dangerous.
I didn’t trust myself to stay calm.
There was something in the way the knife scored through that skin—like tearing fabric you weren’t supposed to touch. Felt violent. Felt right.
I wasn’t making this for a holiday. or a party.
Just for me. for the ritual of it. for the control.
What Her Highness Says To Do
Martha’s porchetta isn’t messing around. She calls for pork belly and a pork loin—both seasoned with a herby rub that reads more like a spell than a recipe. Sage, rosemary, oregano, garlic. lemon zest. fennel pollen if you’re fancy or foolish enough to chase it down.
She tells you to butterfly the loin, nestle it inside the belly like some meaty origami, and tie it tight. Tighter than you think. She says to dry it in the fridge—three days. minimum. I swear I could hear her voice in the crisper drawer every time I opened it.
Then there’s the salsa verde. parsley, chives, vinegar. mustard. lemon. it’s sharp. bright. the opposite of the roast.
And of course, it ends up in a sandwich. Because that’s Martha. make something majestic, then serve it in a roll.
The Bit I Got Wrong (And Liked More)
I didn’t tie it tight enough. the belly slipped a little during the roast.
Didn’t have fennel pollen, either. used toasted crushed fennel seeds. and maybe some cumin by accident.
Also… I ate it standing at the counter, alone, not on a roll, no arugula, just me and a slice with the skin snapping like thunder. Martha would’ve frowned. I didn’t care.
The Way It Happened in My Kitchen
I mixed the herbs with my hands. not a spoon. rubbed the garlic in like I was trying to scrub out regret. The lemon zest stuck under my fingernails. smelled like summer and static.
When I butterflied the loin, I thought of my ex.
Sharp knife. soft flesh. you get the idea.
Rolling it up felt like winding a clock.
Tying it? well. it was ugly. the twine tangled. one loop slid. I swore. jazz still playing. “Blue in Green” came on right as I slammed it into the fridge.
Three days later, it looked like a dried-out memory. but when I roasted it—oh. the skin blistered, blistered, sang.
When I sliced it, the steam carried rosemary and lemon and forgiveness.
Why I’ll Probably Make It Again on a Tuesday
Because it made me feel capable.
Because it made noise when I cut it.
Because it tasted like something worth ruining a shirt for.
A Few Things I Learned
salt needs time.
fat forgives your mistakes.
some recipes aren’t for guests. they’re for ghosts.
What I Did With the Leftovers
Wrapped a few slices in foil. forgot them in the fridge.
Mae came by three days later, made a sandwich, said “this tastes like a secret.” I didn’t ask what she meant.
Would I Make It Again?
Yes. not for show. not for anyone else.
For when I need to remember I can hold a knife and not flinch.
FAQs
Skip It. I Did. Toast Some Fennel Seeds. It’S Fine. Martha Will Survive.
Don’T Cheat The Blast. That 500°F Start Is The Whole Game.
Emotionally? No. It Balances The Fat. Makes The Whole Thing Make Sense.
Yeah. It’S What Makes The Skin Crackle. Skip It And You’Ll Know Why.
Check out More Recipes:
Martha Stewart Porchetta
Description
Loud Skin, Soft Middle, A Bit Of Smoke In The Air. Worth Every Mess.
Ingredients
🔥 For the Porchetta:
For the Salsa Verde:
For the Sandwich:
Instructions
Prepare the Herb Mixture: In a bowl, mash together chopped sage, rosemary, oregano, 12 cloves garlic, 6 tbsp crushed toasted fennel seed (no pollen in this house), a generous pinch of salt and black pepper, and 3 tbsp lemon zest. It’ll smell like a spell.- Prep the Pork Belly: Score the skin in a diamond pattern. flip it. rub in half the herb mix. press it in like you mean it.
- Prep the Pork Loin: Butterfly it—open like a book. Season it. rub in the rest of the mix. place it over the belly like a secret tucked inside.
. - Roll and Tie: Roll tightly. or try. tie with kitchen twine every inch. mine looked like a poorly wrapped gift. season the outside again. refrigerate uncovered for 3 days. the skin needs to dry out.
- Roast the Porchetta: Preheat oven to 500°F / 260°C. roast for 20–25 minutes until you hear it hiss. then drop heat to 325°F / 165°C and roast for 2½ hours, or until a thermometer says 135°F. rest it. at least 30 minutes.
- Make the Salsa Verde: Mix minced shallot, parsley, chives, a bit of oregano, Chardonnay vinegar, salt, Dijon mustard, lemon juice, and olive oil. Stir until it tastes alive.
- Serve: Slice the porchetta thick. sandwich it or don’t. add salsa verde. eat fast. eat messy