It was one of those wet-cold afternoons.
Not snow. Not rain. Just… the air felt soggy. Like the house had been crying a little while I wasn’t looking. Mae was supposed to come home that night but didn’t. Last-minute plan change, boyfriend’s parents, whatever. I didn’t ask. I just stared at the green Pyrex bowl in the sink and thought, something warm, please. Her Highness’s chicken and dumplings recipe came to mind the same way a headache does. Slow. Then sudden.
I’d seen the printout wedged in the back of the drawer next to the broken measuring cup. Folded, food-splotched. From years ago, maybe? Probably when I still measured properly.
What the Original Looked Like
Martha’s version behaves exactly how you’d expect. Clean. Composed. The broth starts with onion, celery, carrot — obedient mirepoix behavior. The chicken’s pre-cooked. The green beans come in at the end like a polite afterthought. Her dumplings? Parsley-flecked, puffed just enough, perfectly placed like she knew where steam would land.
She covers the pan while they cook. Of course she does. Contained heat. Predictable rise.
It’s the kind of comfort food that doesn’t get emotional. Just delivers.
What I Did Differently (Of Course I Did)
I didn’t have parsley.
I thought I did — I always think I do — but what I had was a ziplock of something green and whisper-thin from last summer that might have once been dill. Used it anyway.
The milk was oat milk. Not out of health. Just hadn’t shopped. And the green beans? Swapped for frozen peas. I needed something soft, not squeaky. Mae always called green beans “angry beans” when she was little. Said they snapped like they didn’t want to be eaten.
Oh — and I didn’t cook the chicken beforehand. Just threw in thigh pieces raw and let the broth deal with it. Maybe Martha would gasp. Maybe not.
How It Actually Happened
Started with the onion, like always. That smell — oil meeting allium — has a way of making me forgive things. I grabbed the dented Dutch oven without thinking. Tapped it with the wooden spoon once, twice. Like knocking on someone’s door who used to live there.
The carrots were too thick, so I sliced them thinner, like Nan used to. Her pie crust was a disaster but she respected knife work. She’d approve of this bit.
Flour went in like snow — fast and sudden — and I panicked for a second it would clump. It didn’t. The broth loosened it. My shoulders dropped. Mae would’ve laughed at how I held my breath for that.
Chicken, peas, salt, pepper — in. And then the dumpling batter, which felt weird in my hands. Too thick? Too soft? I didn’t trust it, but I dropped spoonfuls like Martha said, then slapped the lid on and walked away.
Sat on the floor. Didn’t check a timer. Just listened. For the blup-blup of bubbling. For something to shift.
Things I Noticed Along the Way
You can smell when the dumplings are done. Not through technique. Through steam.
The way it smells when flour transforms into something you could actually call dinner.
The lid catches your breath, too. You lift it and —
suddenly you’re softer than you were before.
What I Did With the Rest
Stood at the stove with the spoon. Ate straight from the pot. Didn’t set a table.
Texted Mae a photo and she just said, “is that the bean thing?” I didn’t correct her.
Alfie got a dumpling. Just one. He deserved it.
Would I Make It Again?
Yeah. Maybe not for a dinner party. But for a foggy Tuesday when your kid cancels and the floor feels cold — yes. Every time.
That’s As Much As I Remember
The bowl cooled too fast. The pan stayed warm.
I let it sit in the sink overnight. Didn’t wash it until morning.
Felt like I wasn’t done with it yet.
If you’re after something warmer, I did a leek thing last December that hit harder. It nearly broke the oven, but it worked.
FAQs
Yeah, but the dumplings get weird. kind of spongey. not bad, just… different. like soup with a memory.
Nope. I didn’t. threw raw thighs in and let the broth take care of it. felt more honest that way.
Somewhere in the middle. mine leaned thick because I got distracted and simmered too long. still worked. still felt like a meal.
Then you do what I did and find something green and hope for the best. flavor forgives more than people think.
Toss ’em in. Martha won’t know. the pot’s yours once you start stirring.
I did. it didn’t fight me. came out soft and sleepy, like a biscuit that took a nap.
Check out More Recipes
- Martha Stewart Roast Chicken
- Martha Stewart Chocolate Brownies
- Martha Stewart Fudgy Brownies
- Martha Stewart Butternut Squash Soup
Martha Stewart Chicken And Dumplings
Description
Soft and thick and full of tiny wrong choices that made it better.
Ingredients
Instructions
- Start the base: Melt the butter in your dented old Dutch oven and let the onion, celery, and carrots get cozy. They don’t need to brown, just soften into themselves a little.
- Thicken things up: Sprinkle in the flour and stir like you’re covering something up. Let it toast a bit—don’t walk away. I’ve learned that the hard way.
- Make it soup-ish: Pour in the broth slowly while stirring, and watch it shift. Add the raw chicken, then peas. Season like you remember how, not like a book told you.
- Mix the dumplings: In a bowl, stir the flour, baking powder, salt, and whatever green bits you found in the fridge. Cut in the butter with fingers, not fuss. Pour in the oat milk and stir just until it’s dough but still a little unsure of itself.
- Drop and cover: Spoon the dumpling mess over the bubbling pot. Be generous. It’ll find its place. Lid goes on. Heat goes low. Don’t touch it for about 12 minutes. Just listen. Let it do its work.
- Finish and feel: Open the lid, let the steam hit your face like a hug from someone you missed. Spoon it into bowls—or don’t. Stand over the stove with it. That counts too.