I didn’t plan on making sauce.
Not on a Monday. Not when the house was already too quiet.
But I found the tarragon behind the mustard—the kind you only buy when you’re trying to impress someone. Dried, yes, but still pretending to be worth it. The kettle was already singing. That old, sloped saucepan with the melted handle was already out, like it knew. Like it remembered what I didn’t want to.
That’s how Her Highness’s Béarnaise showed up in my kitchen.
What the Original Looked Like
Martha’s version is exact.
Tight white wine reduction.
Three peppercorns (but I threw four, sorry).
Butter melted like a promise, yolks whisked until your arm forgets itself. And always—always—the tarragon at the end, like punctuation. Hers is graceful. Not fussy. But she’d never forget to strain the shallots. She’d never leave the stove mid-emulsion to check if the mail came. She’d stay until it held.
Me? I drifted.
What I Did Differently
I didn’t strain anything.
Didn’t have fresh tarragon, just the dried stuff in a crumpled little jar.
I used the wine we opened on the night Mae said she wasn’t coming for the weekend. Not fancy wine. Not wine for a sauce. But sharp enough.
And I didn’t whisk constantly.
Not because I forgot—because I needed to let go of the spoon sometimes. Let it hang in the bowl like it was thinking too.
The Way It Happened in My Kitchen
The shallots hit the wine like rain on a hot sidewalk. Fast, loud, sudden.
Then the vinegar caught in my throat—reminded me of that one summer in Provincetown. The tin of sea salt still lives on the sill. The one he bought, then laughed about. It spilled that night. I remember that more than the kiss.
Anyway. I let it reduce too far. Had to splash more wine in and pretend that was the plan.
The yolks looked wrong at first—too thin, too bright. But I talked to them like Nan used to talk to her roses. Soft words, sharp tone. They listened.
Whisked like it mattered. Butter went in slow—drip, breath, stir, memory. Drip, breath, stir, memory.
And the tarragon smelled like him. Not a full memory. Just the collar of his coat when he hugged goodbye too fast.
The sauce thickened. Held. I didn’t expect it to.
A Few Things I Learned
You don’t have to stir the whole time. Just when it feels like it needs you.
Dried tarragon works if you believe in it.
The bowl gets hotter than you think—use a towel, not pride.
And lemon at the end? It’s not a flavor. It’s a curtain drop. A finish you didn’t know you needed.
What I Did With the Extras
I poured it over cold roasted potatoes I found in the fridge. Ate them standing up, barefoot, in silence.
The dog stared like I owed her something. Maybe I did. Maybe it was just sauce.
Would I Make It Again?
Yes. If the day felt like steam and silence again. I’d need this.
That’s As Much As I Remember
The window creaked while I was stirring.
Felt like something was leaving.
But the sauce stayed warm.
If you want something messier, I made Martha’s cheddar soufflé on a night the power flickered. Different kind of storm. Same kind of craving.
FAQs
Sort Of. It Holds In A Warm Thermos For A Bit—Like Two, Maybe Three Hours—But It’S A Moody Sauce. Wants Attention. Wants Warmth. I Don’T Trust It Past That.
I’Ve Used Dried. I’Ve Used Nothing. Once I Used Thyme By Accident And Nobody Screamed. It’S Not Right, But It’S Real. Just Don’T Pretend It’S BéArnaise If You Skip The Herbs Entirely.
Technically, Yeah. But Emotionally? No. The Hand-Whisking Is The Whole Point. It’S Where The Sauce Earns Its Voice. And Where You Lose Yours For A Second, In The Best Way.
Absolutely. Eggs, Potatoes, Asparagus If You’Re Trying To Be Virtuous. I Drizzled It On Cold Roasted Carrots Once And Called It Dinner. Mae Said “Fancy Rabbit Food,” But She Ate All Of It.
Then You Broke It. Join The Club. I’Ve Cried Over Curdled Yolks Before. Try Adding A Spoonful Of Warm Water, Whisk Like You Mean It, And Don’T Apologize. Or Start Over. Or Don’T. Sometimes Broken Things Still Taste Good.
Check out More Recipes:
Martha Stewart Bearnaise Sauce
Description
Creamy, Quiet, And Surprisingly Forgiving—For Once, Like Me.
Ingredients
Instructions
- Reduce the wine mixture : In a small, stained saucepan—the one I always grab without meaning to—bring the white wine, vinegar, shallots, 2 tablespoons of tarragon, and peppercorns to a boil. Medium-high heat if you’re being technical. I watched the bubbles rise like it mattered. Let it reduce until it barely coats the bottom—about 2 tablespoons left, if you’re measuring (I didn’t). I didn’t bother straining it. The flecks felt like proof I was here.
- Melt the butter : In a second pan, slower this time. Medium-low heat, the butter goes in—12 tablespoons, cut up if you’ve got the energy. Let it melt gently while the room gets quiet. Keep it warm, not hot. Like how you talk to someone you almost forgave.
- Whisk the egg yolks : Three yolks, no shell, in the heatproof bowl. I used stainless—my copper one was holding onions from the day before. Off heat, whisk until they shift color—pale, a little thicker, like they’re pretending to be stronger than they are. My arm ached by the end. That felt right
- Incorporate the wine mixture : Add the reduced wine-shallot-vinegar situation into the yolks. Add salt. Whisk like you mean it, even if you don’t. Pour in the boiling water—slowly, carefully. I whispered to it. The kind of whisper you use when you’re not ready to be loud again.
- Cook the sauce : Put the bowl over a pot of simmering water. Keep the heat low. Don’t rush this part, even if you want to. Whisk without stopping. It’ll thicken when it’s ready. Not before. Like forgiveness. Or trust.
- Add the melted butter : Start with drops. Just a few. Then more, a little faster. Whisk while pouring, whisk while breathing, whisk while remembering what the kitchen used to sound like when Mae was little. Emulsify. That’s the word. I don’t like it. But it worked.
- Finish with seasoning : Lemon juice goes in last. Just enough to wake it up. Then the last teaspoon of tarragon—mine was dried, stubborn, still fragrant. Stir. Taste. Pause. Breathe.