The lemon hit first. Not even from the fruit itself—just the rind, curled and tired, sitting on the windowsill like it had something to prove. Mae was upstairs texting her father about the weekend. I was downstairs pressing claws into paper towels like that would make me feel more in control of things. It didn’t.
Her Highness’s recipe called for two kinds of crab. Small, special, whatever she said. Claw meat and lump meat like there’s a man in waders delivering it straight to your stoop. I had one tub from Hannaford. Not labeled, just “crab.” Cold and vaguely wet and probably not what Martha would’ve used—but it was what I had. And I wasn’t going back out.
What the Original Looked Like
Martha’s crab cakes are what she’d serve to guests who wear linen and bring you wine you’re too embarrassed to open. She uses claw and jumbo lump, mixes with light mayo (because of course), and insists on fresh lemon juice from two lemons. There’s parsley in there—chopped neat. Dijon, Old Bay. It’s all very clean. Very structured. You shape them into perfect rounds, drizzle them in melted butter, and broil until golden, like her magazine covers always promised food would turn out.
They’re good. I’ll give her that. But they feel like a dress you suck in your stomach to wear.
What I Did Differently
I had one kind of crab. I didn’t ask questions.
I used full-fat mayo because the light stuff tastes like a compromise.
No fresh parsley—mine was slimy. Dried flakes from the jar. They did the job.
I zested the lemons instead of juicing both—because the zest is where the scent lives, and I needed that more than the sour.
Also? I didn’t broil them.
My broiler’s still moody since the night the plastic measuring spoon melted during the fish-stick fire. So I pan-fried. Cast iron. Medium heat. Turned them too early. Got anxious. But they crisped up. Eventually.
The Way It Happened in My Kitchen
The egg almost slid off the counter. Mae yelled something about Wi-Fi. I grabbed the jar of mustard with one hand and a memory with the other—Nan used to make these with Ritz crackers, not saltines. Said the butter was better in Ritz. I never told her Martha said otherwise. Wouldn’t have mattered.
The bowl felt heavier than it should’ve. Probably the guilt. Probably just wet crab.
I stirred like I meant it. Crumb after crumb until the mixture clung like a secret. Used that green Pyrex bowl again—the one with the crack that’s not quite dangerous. I shaped them while standing because I couldn’t sit still. Eight uneven discs. Some flatter than others. One looked like Maine, sideways.
I fried them in batches while the dog watched like she knew I’d drop one. I didn’t. Not this time. But I did burn the second side. Not bad. Just enough to taste like July at the beach when you stay too long and the sunscreen fails.
Mae came down just as I was plating them. She didn’t say much. Just grabbed one, bit it, and shrugged. Then said, “These are better than Dad’s.”
Didn’t know he made crab cakes. Didn’t ask.
A Few Things I Learned
Crab doesn’t care if you stir it gently or not—it still smells like the ocean left you.
Old Bay covers a multitude of sins, but not bitterness. That’s internal.
A lemon, zested, can save a moment faster than most people.
What I Did With the Extras
Ate one cold over the sink around midnight.
Gave Mae two for lunch the next day.
The last one? I don’t remember. Might’ve tossed it. Might’ve needed the space.
Would I Make It Again?
Yes.
But only with one kind of crab.
And only when the house feels slightly too quiet.
That’s As Much As I Remember
The lemon smell stuck around until morning.
The dog licked the cast iron.
I didn’t scrub it right away.
If you need something warmer, I made a crab and corn chowder last winter that fogged up every window in the house. messier. but worth it.
FAQs
Her highness says yes. I say use what you’ve got. mine were all from one plastic tub and they still made mae nod like she meant it.
Yep. i’ve done that too. they’re a little less dramatic that way, but less splatter if you’ve got a white shirt on. just brush with butter and bake until they look golden enough to fool someone.
Make something up. a pinch of paprika, maybe celery salt if it’s hanging around. i’ve used lemon pepper before when i was desperate. crab forgives.
Not really. unless you hate mayo, in which case… you might still like these. it melts into everything. like background music. or regret. depends on the day.
Check out More Recipes:
- Martha Stewart Buttermilk Biscuits
- Martha Stewart Coleslaw
- Martha Stewart Bolognese Sauce
- Martha Stewart Beef Chili Recipe
- Martha Stewart Vegetarian Chili
Martha Stewart Crab Cakes Recipe
Description
Cold, sharp, and just rebellious enough to taste like me that week.
Ingredients
Instructions
- Make the mixture: dumped the crab in a bowl that still smelled like last week’s pasta. added mayo, mustard, lemon zest. cracked an egg without thinking. the dried parsley clumped—didn’t matter. stirred with a fork that bent halfway through. added the crumbs. stirred again. it started to hold.
- Shape the cakes: scooped rough handfuls, too wet at first. pressed, reshaped, ignored the mess. ended up with seven instead of eight. one was just smaller. left them on wax paper like they were waiting for something better.
- Fry the cakes: butter in the cast iron. medium heat that turned high when i looked away. added the first one too soon—it hissed like it was mad. laid the others in gentler. flipped too early. then again. they browned eventually. the kitchen smelled like vacation and guilt.
- Serve the damn things: dropped two on Mae’s plate. squeezed the tired lemon over both. forgot the tartar sauce until halfway through eating. cold by then. still good.