I wasn’t planning to drink.
But the sun was too loud and the fridge hummed like it knew something I didn’t.
One of those afternoons that smells like sunscreen and salt and unfinished business.
The kind of day where the laundry stares back at you. And you stare first.
Martha’s margarita recipe showed up in the drawer between takeout menus and an expired Groupon. Lime. Cointreau. Rules.
Of course she uses blanco tequila. Of course she calls for pink salt like we all have artisanal Himalayan slabs lying around.
She says to shake “vigorously” for ten seconds—because even her chaos has a stopwatch.
What the Original Looked Like
Her Highness keeps it sharp.
Two ounces tequila. One ounce each of lime juice and orange liqueur. Salt the rim like it’s a holy ritual. Glass pre-chilled. Lime wheel perched like it’s judging you.
It’s exact. It’s elegant.
It’s a drink for someone who calls their deck a terrace.
I respect it. I do. But—
What I Did Differently
I used the cheap tequila.
The one in the back of the freezer with the fading label and the cap that sticks.
Didn’t have Cointreau—used triple sec. Poured a little extra, actually. Not by mistake.
I rimmed the glass with sea salt and chili powder. Something smoky. Something messy.
No chilled rocks glass. Just the one I always use for the good stuff—the salt-rimmed margarita glass with the chip Mae once asked if I’d ever fix.
And I didn’t shake it in a proper shaker. I used an old mason jar with a tight lid and a loose memory.
The Way It Happened in My Kitchen
The first lime was dry. like it knew I was thirsty for something else.
Mae called mid-squeeze, asked if I remembered the name of that boy she liked in 8th grade.
“Sam?” I said. She laughed. “God no.”
The ice cracked like thunder when it hit the bottom of the old green Pyrex.
Didn’t even bother with a proper rocks glass.
Used the one with the chipped rim that fits my thumb just right.
Shook it in a mason jar, one handed, while the dog barked at a gull.
The salt clung unevenly. Like it knew the rim was a suggestion, not a boundary.
I tasted it before garnishing.
Didn’t add the lime wheel. Ate it instead. It was bitter. So was I.
A Few Things I Learned
Salt cuts more than flavor.
A second pour tastes different than the first—warmer, slower, a little dangerous.
You can measure forgiveness in ounces, but you shouldn’t.
What I Did With the Extras
There weren’t any.
I made a second round before I finished the first.
The sun dipped. The fridge stopped humming.
I didn’t.
Would I Make It Again?
If the breeze comes from the right direction and I’m still angry at nothing?
Yes.
That’s As Much As I Remember
The glass was empty and so was the bowl of limes.
The salt stayed on my fingers.
I left the dishes until morning.
If You’Re After Something Stronger, I Did A Bourbon Punch Version Once During A Thunderstorm. It Kicked Harder. But Held Longer.
FAQs
You Can. But It Won’T Bite The Same Way. Fresh Lime’S Got Attitude. Bottled’S Just Tired.
Totally. But Then What Are You Clinging To When The Glass Sweats?
Use Whatever Orange-Ish Liqueur You’Ve Got. I Once Used Something From A Souvenir Shop In Mexico And It Slapped.
Yes. Just Don’T Shake It—Stir It In A Big Pitcher And Let People Pour Their Own Drama.
Depends How Generous Your Pour Is. Mine? Stronger Than It Needed To Be. Not Sorry.
Check out More Recipes:
Martha Stewart Margarita Recipe
Description
Bright, Salty, And Unapologetically Off-Balance—Like That Week.
Ingredients
Instructions
- Juice the lime: Squeeze one lime until it gives up about 1 oz / 30 ml of juice. If it’s stubborn, swear at it. Set the juice aside and wipe your hands on whatever towel is closest.
- Prepare the garnish: Slice a thin wheel off the second lime for the garnish. Then cut a wedge from the same lime—use it to rim the glass unless the glass is already chipped, in which case just pretend you meant to skip this part.
- Rim the glass & add ice: Rub the lime wedge around the rim of a cold rocks glass—or any glass, honestly. Dip it into a plate of flaky sea salt and chili powder (or pink salt if you’re feeling fancy). Fill halfway with ice. Or a bit more. No one’s watching.
- Shake the cocktail: In a cocktail shaker (or mason jar, if your shaker’s missing a lid again), add a good handful of ice, then pour in 2 oz blanco tequila, 1½ oz triple sec (if it slips past the line, don’t pour it out), and that lime juice you nearly forgot about. Shake hard. Think about something that annoys you while you do it.
- Strain & serve:Strain into the salted glass. Drop the lime wheel in or don’t. Drink immediately. Preferably with your feet up and your regrets quiet.