i wasn’t going to make anything that night.
the light was weird. too yellow.
and the mushrooms were starting to slump in the back of the fridge, like they knew i’d forgotten them.
but i’d torn out her marsala recipe months ago—creased in a drawer next to the broken corkscrew and the emergency chocolate.
figured if i was going to cook, might as well make something that needed wine.
and fire.
What the Original Looked Like
her highness keeps it crisp.
thin-pounded chicken, dredged in wondra like she always insists.
browned fast.
then mushrooms, cooked until every bit of water runs off in surrender.
a full cup of dry marsala. garlic. lemon. parsley.
the sauce is glossy—probably photogenic.
hers is served neat, stacked, like it understands posture.
it’s lovely. it is.
but too clean for the night i had.
What I Did Differently (And Why I’m Not Sorry)
i didn’t use wondra. just regular flour and a lot of swearing when it clumped.
my chicken wasn’t scored or even evenly pounded—mae needed help with her math homework halfway through. i gave up and called it rustic.
used baby bellas instead of creminis.
added more garlic because why wouldn’t you.
and poured the wine like i was angry at it.
i forgot the parsley until the end.
it was still good.
The Way It Happened in My Kitchen
the pan was too hot when the oil went in.
i dropped the chicken and it hissed like it was mad at me. maybe it was.
mae came in asking if marsala was a place or a wine.
i said both.
she nodded like she understood and stole a mushroom off the counter.
i burned the first batch of garlic.
started over.
the wine hit the pan and something in me unclenched. smelled like late dinners in boston when i was still pretending i liked going out.
i stirred with the old wooden spoon—the one with the burn on the handle.
added lemon juice too early, but it didn’t seem to mind.
the chicken went back in.
i spooned the sauce over it like i was trying to fix something i couldn’t name.
A Few Things I Learned
marsala doesn’t taste like much when cold.
but hot—hot, it tells the truth.
the sauce clings if you don’t rush it.
and parsley, even late, forgives a lot.
What I Did With the Rest
left it in the pan on the stove.
we ate with forks. no plates.
mae said it felt like a movie dinner.
i think she meant the kind where someone finally says how they really feel.
no one did.
but the chicken helped.
Would I Make It Again?
probably.
but only when i need to hear something sizzle.
That’s As Much As I Remember
the wine bottle’s still on the counter.
empty now.
the pan’s still warm.
FAQs
Yeah. I’Ve Used White Wine Once When I Was Out Of Marsala And Too Tired To Care. It Was Brighter, A Little Less Rich. Still Worked. Didn’T Get Complaints.
I Never Do. Regular Flour’S Fine. It Won’T Cling Quite The Same, But It Browns. And That’S What Matters.
Mae Ate It, But Picked Out The Mushrooms. Said The Sauce Was “Fancy Chicken Juice,” Whatever That Means. I’D Say Yes.
Technically. But Then It’S Not Marsala. It’S Just Chicken With Wine Feelings. Still Delicious, Just A Little Lonelier.
Bread If You’Re Lazy. Mashed Potatoes If You’Re Tired But Pretending You’Re Not. Pasta If Someone’S Coming Over. Or Just A Spoon. Honestly.
Check out More Recipes:
Martha Stewart Chicken Marsala
Description
Deep, Sharp, And A Little Late To The Party—Like Me, That Night.
Ingredients
Instructions
- Prepare the flour mixture: tossed the flour, salt, and pepper into a wide bowl. no wondra in sight. dredged the chicken while the oil heated, shaking off what i could.
- Sear the chicken: got the pan too hot. added a messy glug of oil. threw in the chicken. it browned fast, maybe too fast, but smelled like something worth eating. flipped it. three minutes each side. pulled it out and left it on a plate i should’ve warmed.
- Cook the mushrooms: added more oil, then the mushrooms. let them sit until they stopped screaming. stirred once or twice. they got golden around the edges and finally stopped sulking.
- Make the sauce: turned off the heat and dumped in the marsala. it hissed and steamed like it had something to say. scraped the pan with a spoon that’s older than mae. added garlic, lemon juice, butter, parsley. let it simmer until the kitchen smelled like memory.
- Finish and serve: slid the chicken back in, spooned the sauce over like i meant it. sprinkled whatever parsley was left. served with mashed potatoes i didn’t make and bread i forgot to buy. didn’t matter.