There was a time I couldn’t eat anchovies without flinching.
And then—well. Then I made this.
It was damp out. Not rain. Just the kind of heavy April air that makes the windows sweat and the tea go cold before it hits your lip. The lettuce in the crisper had turned at the edges. Not gone, just soft. Like me.
The recipe was Martha’s Caesar Salad. Classic. Predictable. Her Highness in all her structured glory.
It showed up in a magazine I shouldn’t have kept—a page I tore and taped to the inside of a cupboard once. The tape’s yellowed now. So are parts of me.
What Her Highness Wanted
She calls for croutons baked like bricks of intent—olive oil, butter, a mean dusting of cayenne.
Then that dressing. Garlic. Anchovy. Lemon. Egg yolk. Olive oil whisked in slow, like a secret.
She mashes it with ceremony, probably in a bowl that cost more than my Dutch oven did (dent and all). Tosses the romaine like it’s silk. Shaves the cheese with confidence.
I read it twice. Then I looked at the bread I had—an old heel from the bakery, crust like armor—and said fine. Let’s see who blinks first.
What I Did Differently (And Why I’m Not Sorry)
I didn’t measure the oil.
Didn’t bother with the salt in the dressing either—the anchovies took care of that, and then some.
I used the egg yolk but cracked it wrong. Shell shards in the bowl. Fished them out with a spoon that still smells like the peach jam I canned in 2002. Didn’t matter. It all emulsified like it forgave me.
The bread? Left the crusts on. Martha trims them. I don’t. I like my croutons violent.
Mae said they tasted “like if toast had an opinion.” I think she meant it nicely.
The Way It Happened In My Kitchen
The garlic went in first. Always does. I mashed it with anchovies in the green Pyrex I’ve had since college. The one with the chip on the side that catches my knuckle every time.
I bled a little. Kept going.
The whisking took longer than I remembered. My arm got tired. The oil glugged out uneven.
Mae wandered in and asked if this was “the fish salad.”
I said yes. She stayed. That’s how I knew it was working.
I tossed the romaine with my hands. The leaves were colder than expected. It jolted something—
Vanilla. Christmas before the divorce. That same cold. That same ache that came with it.
Anyway. I threw in the croutons and called it done.
What I Learned (Or Re-Learned)
Anchovy isn’t a flavor. It’s a memory.
A brine-soaked secret tucked into dressing. You taste it and remember things you didn’t mean to.
Also—don’t skip the pepper. It matters more than you think.
What I Did With the Extras
The bowl sat out all afternoon.
By five, the lettuce had wilted. I ate it anyway, standing up. Croutons gone. Dressing soaked through.
It was better that way.
Muffled. Like it had something to confess but didn’t know how.
Would I Make It Again?
Yes.
Probably when I shouldn’t.
It Was Cold at First. Then It Wasn’t.
The window fogged while I ate.
The smell of garlic on my fingers.
And a quiet bite that felt like something else entirely.
If you want something softer, I once made a warm leek thing with too much cheese and not enough shame. Still think about it.
FAQs
Yeah, but it won’t taste like a caesar. it’ll taste like dressing’s shy cousin. if you’re really anchovy-averse, try capers or a whisper of fish sauce. not the same, but it’ll get you there.
i mean… probably. i’ve never gotten sick. use a fresh one, maybe organic if it makes you feel better. or cheat with mayo. her highness would never. but i have.
Whatever’s about to go stale. sourdough’s nice. i used a bakery heel that could’ve been a weapon. it crisped up like a charm.
dry it like your happiness depends on it. seriously. damp leaves = sad salad. i’ve lined the bowl with a tea towel before. it helps. plus, emotional support fabric.
Check out More Recipes:
- Martha Stewart Potato Salad
- Martha Stewart Zucchini Bread
- Martha Stewart Tomato Soup
- Martha Stewart Sweet Potato Casserole
- Martha Stewart Royal Icing
Martha Stewart Caesar Salad
Description
A little sharp, a little sad. That day needed both.
Ingredients
Instructions
- Make the croutons: ripped the bread, crusts and all. tossed it with melted butter and olive oil in the green bowl i chipped last fall. added salt, a mean flick of cayenne, black pepper for bite. spread it on a tray that still smells like last week’s roast. baked at 450°F until they were golden and loud. one burned. i ate it anyway.
- Start the dressing: mashed the garlic and anchovies with a fork straight in the bowl. it slipped once. made a mess. kept going. added lemon juice, worcestershire, dijon, pepper, and that one yolk i cracked too hard. forgot to breathe during the whisking.
- Bring it together: drizzled in the oil slow like trust. the dressing pulled together like it meant it. thick. briny. sharp. like a memory i didn’t want but needed.
- Assemble the salad: tore the romaine into a bowl too small. added the cheese (shaved, sort of) and the hot croutons. poured the dressing while mae watched. she said it smelled “like dad’s weird pizza phase.” i pretended not to hear.
- Eat it while it matters: tossed everything with my hands. plate optional. we ate straight from the bowl. the croutons stayed crunchy. the lettuce didn’t stand a chance. it was good. not perfect. good.