It was cold enough to hurt.
Not bitter, not dramatic—just that damp kind of Maine cold that sits behind your knees and in your elbows, like old regret. The kind that doesn’t scream, just hums. Quiet but insistent.
The radiator clinked once. Then silence.
So I cooked.
Not for a dinner party. Not for Mae. Just because I wanted the oven on.
Her Highness’s spinach artichoke dip showed up because I found the recipe folded in thirds in the back of a cookbook I don’t even like. Cream cheese, garlic, some nonsense about garlic salt (she’s precise like that). It felt right. Or at least warm.
What the Original Looked Like
Martha’s version is the usual ceremonial elegance—cream cheese base, a pinch of this, a quarter cup of that, as if life always moves in quarter cups. Garlic gets minced. The artichokes are chopped like obedient soldiers. She folds in frozen spinach with the grace of someone who’s never had their kitchen sink back up mid-recipe. Mozzarella on top. Baked until the whole thing looks composed.
And honestly? It is good. She’s not wrong.
But I wasn’t looking for good. I was looking for something that might forgive me for being tired.
What I Did Differently
I didn’t have Romano. I don’t think I’ve ever had Romano when a recipe asked for it. I used whatever hard cheese was in the fridge—might’ve been cheddar, might’ve been regret.
I added lemon. Just a bit. Because the jar of artichokes I used was oily and sad, and lemon fixes more than it should.
And I roasted the garlic. Not because I planned to—just forgot it in the toaster oven while looking for the green Pyrex bowl. It worked.
Her Highness might scold. I don’t care. It felt better this way.
The Way It Happened in My Kitchen
The cream cheese didn’t want to soften. I stood there stabbing it with a wooden spoon like it had something to answer for.
The dented Dutch oven was too big for this, so I used the chipped dish that always smells faintly like cinnamon. My ex used to put cinnamon in things that didn’t need it—he ruined a pot of beans with it once. I still flinch.
Anyway.
I folded in the spinach with one hand. The other was texting Mae. She wanted to know if “the bean thing” worked with lentils. I said yes. Then stirred harder.
When I sprinkled the cheese on top, I remembered the lemon cake collapse. The smell was the same—faintly tangy, hopeful, messy.
I almost cried. Then didn’t.
A Few Things I Learned
If the spinach is too wet, it sulks.
Letting the whole thing sit for five minutes after baking makes the top just a little sharper, like the edges of a good memory.
I still hate garlic salt. But I used it. And it was fine.
What I Did With the Extras
Ate it cold. Standing up. Fork straight in the dish.
Mae tried a bite and said, “Tastes like a snow day.”
She wasn’t wrong.
Would I Make It Again?
Yes.
But only when I need to feel held by something that doesn’t ask questions.
That’s As Much As I Remember
The radiator never turned back on. But the oven did enough.
And for that half hour, the kitchen felt almost like a hug.
If Soft Food’S Your Thing, I Did A Cheesy Potato Mess Last Week You Might Like. Messier Than This. Warmer, Too.
FAQs
Yeah. I Actually Like It Better The Next Day. The Flavors Get Cozy With Each Other Overnight. Just Reheat Gently Or Eat It Cold Like A Gremlin—Your Call.
Sure, But Wilt It Down First And Squeeze It Dry. Really Dry. Like “My Last Relationship” Dry. Otherwise It Gets Swampy.
Don’T Sweat It. I’Ve Used Cheddar, Gouda, Even Leftover GruyèRe From A Failed Soufflé. The Dip Doesn’T Care. Just Make It Salty And Sharp-Ish.
Please Do. I Only Used It Because Her Highness Said So. Regular Salt And A Real Clove Of Garlic Are Louder In The Right Way.
Technically, Yes—But It Gets Kind Of Weird. The Texture Goes A Bit Sad. I’D Say Just Eat It For Breakfast. I Did. No Regrets.
Check out More Recipes:
Martha Stewart Spinach Artichoke Dip
Description
Creamy, Sharp, And A Little Rebellious—Like Me, That Day.
Ingredients
Instructions
- Preheat the oven : Set your oven to 175°C (350°F). I didn’t grease the dish—forgot—but it didn’t stick much. Use a small baking dish, ideally chipped, ideally sentimental.
- Mix the base : In a medium bowl (mine was the green Pyrex from college), combine the softened cream cheese—if it’s still cold, swear a little and mash it anyway. Add mayo, Parmesan, and a hard cheese you actually have (I used cheddar). Mix in your roasted garlic (or raw, if the day’s too long), dried basil, garlic salt (with reluctance), a small storm of black pepper, and a pinch of salt.
- Add the vegetables : Fold in chopped artichokes—jarred, drained, slightly oily—and the spinach, which you should wring out like it owes you money. It’ll all look strange at first. Keep going.
- Transfer to a baking dish : Spoon the mixture into your dish. Spread it gently. Sprinkle mozzarella over the top like you’re pretending not to care how much. I added a squeeze of lemon here. Regret and instinct.
- Bake until golden : Place in the oven and let it go for about 25 minutes. Mine bubbled early and got loud around the edges. That’s when I knew it was time.
- Serve and enjoy : Let it cool just long enough not to burn your tongue. Eat it with toast, crackers, a spoon, or your fingers. Mae said it tasted like a snow day. I didn’t argue.