I Tried Martha Stewart’s Chicken Pot Pie — I Didn’t Chill the Dough, and It Still Worked

The flour was already out.
I was already frustrated.
The butter was too cold to cut and too soft to care, so I smashed it into the flour with my fingers and didn’t apologize.

Her Highness would’ve told me to pulse it in the food processor.
To chill the disk. To wait.

I didn’t.

It was a Tuesday. Mae had taken the good scissors to cut fabric she wasn’t supposed to. The dog threw up a sock. I needed dinner to hold shape and say nothing back.
So I made Martha Stewart’s chicken pot pie, on my own terms.

And the crust?
Golden. Loud. Good enough to remember.

What the Original Looked Like

Martha’s chicken pot pie is what you serve when company’s coming and your towels match.
The crust is tidy: flour, cold butter, a little sugar and salt, pulsed into dough and chilled until obedient. The filling simmers with onions, carrots, garlic, chicken broth thickened with flour, finished with peas, shredded chicken, and fresh parsley.

You tuck it all into a dish, roll the dough over, crimp the edges like manners, and bake it until the top is golden and the middle burbles like it knows it’s welcome.

It’s good.
It’s her.

What I Did Differently

I didn’t chill the dough.
Didn’t pulse anything. Used a fork, then my hands. The dough held together. Barely. That was enough.

I didn’t measure the carrots too carefully.
And I used rotisserie chicken because I was tired and the market had one left.

I forgot the parsley.
Found it later in the crisper, still wrapped in the store rubber band. It’s probably still in there.

The Way It Happened in My Kitchen

Butter hit the pan too fast.
I was rushing. Mae said, “Are you okay?”
I said, “Help me stir.” She didn’t, but stayed close.

The onions softened. Carrots took longer. I added garlic a little late, and the smell hit like memory—Nan’s stew on Sundays, when we all had something to forgive.

I stirred in the flour with the wrong spoon. It clumped. I panicked. Added broth slowly, whisked like I meant it, and it smoothed out.

The filling thickened. The peas went in frozen. The chicken shredded easily—I love when food gives in without a fight.

I rolled the dough too thin.
It tore.
I patched it.
Cut a weird little star in the center for the steam to escape.
Crimped the edges with a fork I bent once during a dinner party I don’t talk about anymore.

The pie baked while we cleaned the counters in silence.
It smelled like relief.

A Few Things I Learned

Crust doesn’t care if you followed directions, as long as it’s hot.
And sometimes the best bite is the one with no parsley and too much sauce.

What I Did With the Extras

Mae microwaved it for breakfast the next day.
Said it was even better cold.
I agreed. With a mouth full of crust.

Would I Make It Again?

Yes.
Probably the same wrong way.

That’s As Much As I Remember

The crust flaked.
The dog stopped barking.
The kitchen felt like mine again.

Why I Didn’t Chill the Dough

Because I didn’t want to wait.
Because dinner isn’t always a debutante ball.
Because cold butter still melts in a hot oven.

And it did.
Beautifully.

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