The smell clung.
Tomato, wine, something herbal and too warm. The kind of scent that sticks in fabric, even after the dish towel’s been washed twice. I wasn’t trying to make anything fancy. The oven was already hot from baking something I didn’t even serve. And there was a bottle of Merlot someone left behind in October. Still had the cork halfway in. Felt like a dare.
Her Highness calls them Braised Short Ribs.
I called them a reason to keep the stove on.
What the Original Looked Like
Martha’s version is elegant, of course. Her short ribs are browned like a photograph—deep and burnished, never rushed. She coats them in flour, sears them with intent, lays them into the pot like she’s tucking them in. Then there’s the red wine, the chicken broth (which I side-eyed but followed), the whole peeled tomatoes broken by hand. It’s slow food with theater.
Her thyme always floats on top like a signature.
No frizz. No mess. Just thyme and silence.
What I Did Differently
I didn’t have reduced-sodium anything.
I used what was open in the fridge, and it tasted like it had heard too much already. I threw in extra onion because one was going soft. I didn’t break up the tomatoes gently. I crushed them like I meant it. Like they were a stand-in for something I couldn’t say out loud.
And I browned the ribs too fast.
Not out of hunger. Just… distraction.
The Way It Happened in My Kitchen
The oil spat on my wrist. Again.
Mae wasn’t home—off at her dad’s—and I was filling the house with heat for no one. I dredged each rib in flour with fingers still sticky from peeling carrots. Used the Dutch oven. The one with the dent. The same dent from that night I dropped it—no, threw it—after the yelling stopped.
I browned the ribs in twos, maybe threes. Not patient enough for one-at-a-time. The smell of wine hitting the pot made me think of Provincetown. Not the good parts. The laugh I still remember and shouldn’t.
The tomatoes splashed. I didn’t flinch.
It simmered like something unfinished.
When I slid it into the oven, I forgot to set the timer. Didn’t need it. I just listened—there’s a sound when the meat gives up. A kind of shift. You feel it more than hear it. It was dark by the time I pulled it out. I stood there staring, hand still holding the spoon, wondering who the hell I thought I was feeding.
What I Did With the Extras
I ate the leftovers cold.
Over the sink.
The next morning.
No plate. Just fingers. The fat had settled into something like memory—coagulated and familiar. I don’t know why I didn’t heat it up. Maybe it felt truer that way. Like something left behind on purpose.
Would I Make It Again?
Probably.
But not for anyone else.
That’s As Much As I Remember
The pan was still warm when I turned off the light. The house smelled like burnt thyme and cooked wine. I left the lid half on, like it might breathe.
If You Need Something Messier, I Did A Version Of Martha’S Cheesy Leek Bake Last Winter That Nearly Broke The Oven—But Worth It.
FAQs
Yeah. But They Lose Something. The Fat Firms Up Weird And The Sauce Goes Dull. Still Edible. Still Kind Of Comforting In A Late-Night Way.
Whatever Was Open. Merlot, I Think. Maybe Cab. Just Don’T Use The Sweet Stuff Unless You Want Regret On A Plate.
Technically No. Emotionally Yes. The Bones Give It Backbone—Literally And Otherwise.
Yes. And Worse. The Flavor Deepens, But The Feeling Softens. I Liked It Cold. Mae Would Reheat It With Extra Salt And No Patience.
You Could. But You’D Miss The Smell Of The Oven Doing Its Slow Magic. And I Think The Ribs Would Notice.
Check out More Recipes:
Martha Stewart Braised Short Ribs
Description
Made This On A Cold Night When The Silence Got Loud. Ate It Alone The Next Day. Still Worth It.
Ingredients
Instructions
- Preheat the oven: Set your oven to 200°C / 400°F. You’ll want the kitchen warm before the wine hits the pan.
- Coat the short ribs: In a large bowl, toss the ribs with flour, coarse salt, and black pepper. My measurements were guesses—handfuls, pinches. Shake off the extra flour like you’re brushing off a bad memory.
- Sear the short ribs: Heat the oil in your Dutch oven (mine still has the dent from that night I don’t talk about) over medium-high heat. Brown the ribs in batches—don’t crowd them. Each side should get a little crust, about 10 minutes per batch. The smell will stick to your clothes. Let it.
- Sauté the vegetables: Toss in the onions and carrots. Stir and scrape like you’re trying to uncover something. Let them brown a bit, about 3–5 minutes. Don’t rush. They soften like old stories.
- Deglaze with wine and broth: Pour in the bottle of red wine and the chicken broth. It’ll hiss. Drop in the thyme sprigs and dump in the canned tomatoes, breaking them with the back of a spoon (or your mood). Stir until the chaos starts to calm.
- Braise the ribs: Nestle the ribs back into the liquid. Cover the pot and place it in the oven. Let it cook for 1 hour at 200°C, then lower the heat to 175°C / 350°F and cook for another hour. The meat should give in but not fall apart—like someone who still shows up.
- Prepare the sauce: Take the ribs out gently with tongs and put them on a plate. Spoon a little of the liquid over them. Cover with foil to keep them warm, like they matter. Strain the cooking liquid through a sieve and discard the solids. What’s left is story-thick.
- Reduce the sauce: Bring the strained liquid to a boil. Let it bubble down until you’ve got about 2 cups. It takes around 10–12 minutes. Season with salt and pepper. Taste it. It should feel like something you almost forgot.
- Serve and enjoy: Plate the ribs and pour the sauce over like a final word. Or don’t. I didn’t plate anything. Just stood by the stove, ate one with my hands, and felt the heat in my chest.