I Tried Martha Stewart’s Buffalo Wings and Ended Up Crying Over Celery

I wasn’t planning on wings. wasn’t planning on cooking at all. the kitchen smelled like burnt toast when I walked in—so, you know, something was off.
Rain had started before noon, and I hadn’t moved much since. The Dutch oven still sat on the counter from last week, dent catching the light in that rude way. Like it remembered something I didn’t want to.

Her Highness’s buffalo wings just showed up. On a folded page stuck in an old issue of Living that I only opened because Mae needed the TV remote and I was stalling.

And suddenly I was thawing chicken like it meant something.

What the Original Looked Like

Martha’s buffalo wings are crisp by method, not luck. First fry. Cool down. Then a second fry, hotter—louder. She coats them in cornstarch, keeps the sauce simple but loaded: Frank’s, butter, garlic. Served, of course, with blue cheese dip, carrots lined up like soldiers. No mess. No guesswork. Very her.

It’s a solid recipe. A little clean.
The kind of party food you serve from a tray with doilies under the ramekins.

What I Did Differently

I didn’t have Frank’s, so I used that off-brand cayenne stuff from the back of the fridge. The label was peeled, like it had secrets.
Also—Mae hates blue cheese. So I used sour cream and yogurt and just whispered “dairy” instead of naming it.

And I didn’t wait the full 15 minutes between fries. I never wait. That’s who I am.

The Way It Happened in My Kitchen

The oil popped too loud. I flinched. Garlic went in the butter early, because I forgot how quick it browns. Didn’t matter. The house started to smell like dad’s hands again—garlic and something sharp. I rubbed lemon on my fingers, out of instinct.

Mae asked why the oil was “angry.”
I told her it’s because it knew I wasn’t paying attention. She didn’t laugh.

The wings fried like they wanted to be something more. I used the spider I stole from my ex’s drawer—he never noticed it was missing. Same way he never noticed the dent in the pan.

I tossed the first batch in sauce too early. They went soggy fast. I stood over the bowl eating them with my fingers, heat stinging under my nails.

By the third batch, I got it right. Or close. They crackled when I stirred. I liked the noise.

Celery snapped under my knife like it had a point to prove. And when Mae dipped hers in the dairy-maybe-not-blue sauce, she said,

“You should make this when you’re not sad next time.”
She didn’t mean it mean. But it hit.

A Few Things I Learned

The second fry matters. Not for crispness—though, yeah. But because you get to try again.

Also: sour cream and yogurt are good liars. And I’d eat anything if it made the house smell like garlic and rain.

What I Did With the Extras

Ate four cold. One hot. Two while standing.
Mae took three to school in foil, which she never does.
The last wing was just… gone. I think I left it in the oven.

Would I Make It Again?

Probably.
Not because they were good—though they were.
But because they got quiet after.

That’s As Much As I Remember

It was still raining when I finished washing the bowl.
The towel smelled like smoke.
I’ll make them again when it’s loud in my head and I need to fry the noise out.

If you want something with more cheese and less noise, I did a version of Martha’s baked mac that tasted like a snow day. Mae said it felt like a blanket.

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