It was overcast but hot. The kind of heat that doesn’t glow—it presses. My neck was sticky from the walk back from the post office, where I’d picked up Mae’s package of mismatched socks and the IRS envelope I still haven’t opened. The cucumbers in the fridge were seconds from going soft. One of them had already caved at the edge, like my grandmother’s cheek did that last summer—just before the hospice nurse started whispering.
I didn’t mean to juice anything. I don’t juice. I chew. I stir. I toast things until the alarm goes off. But Martha’s green juice—Her Highness’s chlorophyll sermon, I call it—had been staring at me from that torn-out magazine page I use to press my teabag.
So I did it. Sort of.
What the Original Looked Like
Martha’s version reads like a spa menu, but with more roots. A pear, two stalks of celery, two cucumbers, a whole bunch of parsley (yes, a whole damn bunch), a thumb of ginger, and orange wedges—with the rind. She says to juice it all and drink it immediately, like it’s a commandment. No mention of pulp. No mention of if you want to drink leaves.
It’s bright. Sharp. Green like money or envy—depending on the light.
What I Did Differently
I didn’t have oranges. Just one sad lemon that looked like it had seen war. So I used that. Left the rind on, like she said. Mae thinks that part’s dramatic. I told her Martha probably thinks pith is a vitamin.
And I added mint. Not for taste. Because I found it clinging to the edge of the windowsill, half-wilted. Leftovers from a mojito that didn’t fix anything.
The Way It Happened in My Kitchen
I fed the pear in first. It made that slow gulping noise that always makes me think of baptisms and blenders. Then the celery. Then the cucumber, one at a time, like apologizing.
The parsley didn’t want to go. I had to push it down with the back of a wooden spoon that still smells like soup from last week. The ginger was a guess. Thumb-sized, sure, but whose thumb?
The juice came out the color of grass after a thunderstorm. I tasted it and immediately thought of that day we trimmed the hedges too close, and Dad swore we’d killed the whole row. We didn’t. They came back stronger. I remember because he rubbed garlic on his fingers that day, said it kept the ants off.
Anyway—
The mint helped. Or maybe just tricked me into thinking it was helping.
A Few Things I Learned
It tastes better if you don’t look at it.
Drinking something green is easier than feeling green, but it’s not a cure.
Cold juice in a chipped glass feels like rebellion. Quiet, leafy rebellion.
What I Did With the Extras
There weren’t extras. Not really. Just pulp, which I stared at for too long. I scooped it into a bowl and thought maybe I’d bake it into something. I didn’t. I dumped it after Mae said it looked like pond sludge.
She wasn’t wrong.
Would I Make It Again?
Maybe. If I’m craving Martha’s voice in my head and something too clean for the rest of the day.
That’s As Much As I Remember
The kitchen smelled like lemons and ambition. I left the glass on the windowsill and the clouds started to clear.
FAQs
Yeah, but you’ll need to strain it unless you like chewing your drinks. it’s more mess. but it works.
Barely. the pear tries, but the parsley wins. it’s more “forest floor” than “fruit salad.”
Skip it. or throw in spinach. or basil. or nothing green at all and pretend it’s a citrus tonic. no one’s grading you.
A few hours, maybe. it gets weird if it sits too long. like soup that forgot what it was.
I mean. yes. but that’s a different kind of juice cleanse.
Check out More Recipes
- Martha Stewart Cream Cheese Frosting
- Martha Stewart Eggplant Parmesan
- Martha Stewart Spaghetti Squash
- Martha Stewart Green Bean Casserole
Martha Stewart Green Juice Recipe
Description
A sip of something sharp and green when I felt dull and gray.
Ingredients
Instructions
- Feed the pear in first: it’s kindest. let it go slow. watch the juice crawl.
- Add the celery and cucumber: they’re loud about it. one makes more foam than sense.
- Shove the parsley down: really. it’ll fight. use a spoon. talk to it if that helps.
- Drop in the ginger and lemon: no measuring, just vibes. the lemon rind stings a little, in a good way.
- Finish with the mint: last thing in, softest thing out. like a whisper after a shout.
- Pour and drink right away: while it’s still alive. cold and sharp and very green. like you did something brave on accident.
- Ignore the pulp or don’t: it stares back. I couldn’t throw it out. then I did.