It started with a craving.
Not for eggs, exactly—but for something tidy. Precise. A little retro and a little smug. Like I could make order out of something, even if just a dozen ovals on a chipped platter.
The sky was heavy, low enough to press into my neck when I let the dog out. Mae had texted me a picture of her friend’s engagement brunch: pastel plates, mimosas, perfect eggs. “Look familiar?” she wrote.
It did.
I used to make deviled eggs every Easter. Even when we weren’t speaking. Even when no one ate them but me.
This time, I made Martha’s.
What the Original Looked Like
Martha’s deviled eggs are what you’d expect—smooth, pale gold, and symmetrical. She’s not showing off here. No capers. No curry. No smoked trout or pickled beet garnishes. Just mayo, Dijon, white wine vinegar. The holy trinity of restrained confidence.
You boil the eggs, peel and halve. Press the yolks through a sieve (because of course you do), and pipe the filling back in like you’re hosting a bridal shower.
It’s neat. Sharp. A little smug.
But it works.
What I Did Differently (Without Asking Permission)
I didn’t press the yolks through a sieve. I mashed them with a fork like a person with things on her mind.
Used whole-grain mustard instead of Dijon because it was open and I couldn’t find the lid to the other.
Added a tiny spoon of relish because Mae always liked a little bite. I didn’t tell Martha.
Didn’t pipe. Used a teaspoon and a butter knife.
They looked less pristine, more lived-in. Like me.
The Way It Happened in My Kitchen
I boiled the eggs in the same pot I’ve had since I was 23. The enamel’s cracked, but it still holds water like hope.
They sat in the cold bath longer than necessary. I got distracted. Ended up peeling them under a trickling faucet while the dog barked at a squirrel like it owed him money.
The yolks crumbled soft, like dust. I mixed in the mayo, vinegar, mustard. It smelled familiar—like church basements and summer funerals. Like holidays with too many opinions and not enough chairs.
I filled them quickly. Not artfully. Lined them up on a plate I never use because it’s “too nice.” That felt right.
What I Learned (From the Yolk)
Not everything has to be fancy to feel intentional.
Some things—especially the small ones—just need to be made.
What Happened After
Mae saw the picture and texted:
“You made your eggs.”
I said: “I made Martha’s.”
She said: “Nah. You didn’t.”
Would I Make Them Again?
Yes. On any day that feels like it needs a tiny act of control.
That’s What I Remember
The filling didn’t smear. The eggs didn’t rock. And for a minute, the kitchen felt like I had a grip on something.
Why I’ll Make Martha’s Deviled Eggs Every Time I Need to Feel Precise
Why I Used Whole-Grain Mustard Instead of Dijon
Because I grabbed the wrong jar and liked it.
It gave the filling more texture—tiny pops of vinegar and seed. Made it taste like it remembered where it came from. Less party. More porch.
FAQs
not really. they dry out. make the filling ahead if you want, but fill them closer to serving. they deserve to be fresh.
i wouldn’t. it wakes the whole thing up. but you can swap it—lemon juice, a little pickle brine, whatever you’ve got with bite.
nope. spoon it in. use a zip-top bag if you’re feeling halfway committed. they’ll still get eaten.
sure, but they’ll be flatter. mustard gives it backbone. even just a dab helps.
slice a tiny bit off the bottom of the white so they sit flat. or just lean into the wobble. they’re eggs, not architecture.
Check out More Recipes:
- Martha Stewart Scalloped Potatoes
- Martha Stewart Buttermilk Waffles
- Martha Stewart Banana Bread Loaf
- Martha Stewart Easy Waffle Recipe
Martha Stewart Deviled Eggs
Description
Sharp, soft, and just imperfect enough to feel like mine.
Ingredients
Instructions
- Cook the Eggs: Place eggs in a saucepan. Cover with an inch of water. Bring to a boil, then kill the heat and cover. Let sit for 12 minutes. Breathe. Drain and run under cold water until they’re easy to touch.
- Peel and Halve: Crack gently. Roll on the counter if they’re being stubborn. Halve them lengthwise. Pop out the yolks and toss them in a bowl.
- Make the Filling: Mash the yolks with a fork. Add mayo, mustard, vinegar (or lemon), and a pinch of salt and pepper. Stir until it feels right. You can sieve it if you’re trying to impress someone. I didn’t.
- Fill the Eggs: Scoop or pipe the filling back into the whites. Smooth them down or let them be lopsided. They’ll taste the same.
- Serve: Cold. Quietly. Maybe with a sprinkle of paprika. Or nothing at all. Just serve them like you meant it.