I didn’t mean to make anything.
There was still toast on the counter from the morning, still coffee in the pot I hadn’t touched since eight, and the windows were fogged — even though it wasn’t raining.
But there was cream cheese in the fridge. And a cucumber that looked suspicious but didn’t smell yet.
And I remembered the way my grandmother used to serve green things in glass bowls shaped like lettuce leaves — like they were meant to be quiet. This felt like that. Cold. Green. Whispery.
So I looked up Her Highness’s Benedictine Dip. And did most of what she said.
What the Original Looked Like
Martha’s version is careful.
Cream cheese, cucumber, onion — grated, not diced — and just enough horseradish to clear your throat but not your sinuses. Cayenne, too, in a whisper. Mayo and sour cream, not too much. And food coloring, if you want it to look like something from a Southern tea table circa 1956.
She calls for buttermilk powder. Optional, of course, but she says it anyway. Which means she wants you to include it. She always does that.
It’s chilled until it hums. Served with sliced bread, crusts cut off. Probably eaten with posture.
What I Did Differently
I skipped the food coloring. Didn’t need it. It already looked like memory.
I didn’t have buttermilk powder, and I wasn’t going to go hunt it down like some kind of dairy archaeologist.
Used a little extra horseradish, though. I was feeling prickly.
And I didn’t measure the cayenne. Just shook it twice and hoped I wouldn’t regret it.
The onion was stronger than I expected — almost made me stop. But I didn’t.
The Way It Happened in My Kitchen
The cucumber grated soft. Pulp and liquid, into the bowl. I scraped out the seeds with the spoon that still smells faintly of cinnamon (Mae’s mistake last December — she tried to spice the whipped cream).
The onion hit next, sharp and wet. I cried a little. Not from the onion, maybe.
Added the cream cheese in clumps. Mayo like a guess. Sour cream like I meant it.
Horseradish last — too much, probably. The blender made a noise I didn’t trust, then it settled.
I tasted it with my finger. Salted it. Paused. Tasted again.
Then put it in the fridge and forgot it for five hours. When I remembered, it was better. Most things are.
Why I Didn’t Use the Food Coloring
Because I didn’t want it to look like Easter.
Because the real green — the tired cucumber kind — felt more honest.
Because I didn’t care what it looked like. I just needed something cold and sharp.
FAQs
Yes. It’S Better Cold. On White Bread, Soft, No Crust. Like You’Re A Fancy Ghost From Kentucky.
Not Even Close. This One Whispers And Then Slaps. In That Order.
Only If You Do What I Did With The Cayenne. So… Probably.
Carrots, Crackers, Your Finger, Regret. Anything Crunchy.
Yes, And You Should. It’S Louder When It’S Quiet. Overnight Is Best.
Check out More Recipes:
Martha Stewart Benedictine Dip
Description
Soft And Cold With A Bite. Like An Apology You Weren’T Ready For.
Ingredients
Instructions
- Grate the cucumber: Peel it, scrape the seeds, grate it down to threads. Let it sit, then drain until it gives up half its water. You want the pulp, not the puddle.
- Grate the onion: Same treatment. One small yellow one. Cry if you must. Measure the liquid like a secret — no more than a tablespoon.
- Blend the rest: Toss everything in — cream cheese, mayo, sour cream, horseradish (be bold), cayenne (or not), salt. Buttermilk powder if it’s somehow already in your kitchen. Blend until it sighs.
- Chill it: Let it rest for at least four hours. Let the bite settle. Let yourself do the same.
- Serve it: Top with green onions. Scoop with bread or whatever’s left. Eat standing, if you must. Some dips don’t want a table.