The first thing I smelled was orange. Not the fruit, not the juice—just the ghost of zest hitting oil in a cold kitchen. I wasn’t trying to be sentimental. The oven was already on from something I burnt earlier (toast, probably), and I’d found a three-rib roast I’d shoved in the back of the freezer last winter during some grief-cooking spree I half-remembered.
Martha Stewart’s Prime Rib with Sage and Orange showed up in my mind like an old friend I didn’t want to call but needed to hear. I had dried bay leaves. I had coarse salt in a cracked jar. I didn’t have a reason to make something fancy, but I did it anyway. Just to see if I could still make the house smell like December used to.
What Martha’s Version Looked Like
Her Highness gives it the full altar treatment. Bay leaves crumbled like dried poetry. Orange zest, fresh sage, salt rubbed in like a blessing. The roast is trimmed, frenched, reverent. It sits in a roasting pan like royalty, wearing a herb robe and waiting for applause.
You roast it high, then low. Rest it like a relic. Serve it sliced, clean lines across a board. She even says to garnish with whole sage leaves, like anyone’s watching.
What I Did Differently
I didn’t have fresh sage. Used dried, crushed it with my fingers over the sink while Mae called to say she’d be late again. I zested one orange because that’s all I had. Added extra olive oil to make up for the missing fragrance. Skipped the garnish. No one’s here to see it.
And I didn’t french the bones. I’m not a butcher. I barely remembered to defrost it in time.
The Way It Happened in My Kitchen
The rub clung like memory. Citrus, salt, a little bitterness from the bay. I pressed it in with my palms like I was trying to imprint something—quiet, something not said.
The roast sat out for hours, sweating on the counter. I thought about that last Christmas with him. The one before the shouting, before the lawyer, before Mae got quiet every time the tree lights blinked.
When I opened the oven, it sighed. Like it knew.
It roasted loud, then low, the way she said. I kept checking the temp, pretending it was about precision. It wasn’t. I just didn’t want to mess it up. I needed something to work.
When I sliced into it—god. Pink. Blushing. Perfectly warm in the center. I said thank you out loud, but I don’t know who I meant it for.
Why I Swapped the Sage (And Why It Still Worked)
I only had the dried stuff. The fresh looked sad at the store and I was too tired to pretend. Crushing it released enough scent to fool me into remembering what the garden used to smell like before I let it die.
The flavor came through anyway. A little earthier, a little less bright. But the meat didn’t complain. Neither did I.
That’s As Much As I Remember
The smell stuck in the hallway all night. I opened the window.
Didn’t help.
But I didn’t mind.
If you want something with less ceremony but just as much flavor, I did Her Highness’s beef stew once when Mae was sick. it was a mess. still good.
FAQs
Yeah. you do. straight from the fridge into the oven is like waking up and running a marathon—rude, and it won’t go well. let it breathe.
You can, but don’t. it’s not loud, just… bright. like someone opening the curtains when you didn’t ask them to but you’re glad they did.
Use whatever fits. i’ve done it in a glass dish with foil scrunched around the sides like a nest. worked fine. felt rustic.
Honestly? with patience. slide the knife along the bones first, then across the grain. or just go for it and call it rustic too.
Absolutely. leftovers like this feel like a secret. i ate cold slices straight from the fridge and it still felt like a holiday.
Check out More Recipes
- Martha Stewart Apple Crumble
- Martha Stewart Beef Stew
- Martha Stewart No Bake Cheesecake
- Martha Stewart Pecan Pie
Martha Stewart Prime Rib
Description
Warm, citrusy, and bold enough to make the house feel full—even when it’s not.
Ingredients
Instructions
- Make the rub: Combine bay, sage, orange zest, salt, pepper, and olive oil in whatever bowl isn’t still dirty. Mix it with your hands if the spoon feels too cold. Rub it all over the meat like it owes you an apology. Wrap and refrigerate overnight—or at least until you forget about it and remember again.
- Prep the roast: Take it out three hours before roasting. Let it sit. Like you. Let it come back to room temp, fat-side up in a pan. Preheat your oven to 450°F.
- Roast: Roast for 30 minutes at 450, then lower to 350°F and keep it going for another hour or so—until it hits 115–120°F inside. Use a thermometer. Don’t guess this part. The meat deserves precision even if you don’t.
- Rest and serve: Take it out. Leave it alone for 20 minutes. Slice between the bones, then across the grain. Serve warm. Or just stand at the counter and eat it from the cutting board. I did.