I Tried Martha Stewart’s Chicken Salad – And Ended Up Eating It in Silence

I didn’t want anything cold.
Not really. But it was too hot to turn on the stove, and the fridge had exactly what it had: leftover roasted chicken, a half-hearted bunch of parsley, one celery stalk bent like it had a hangover, and Mae’s abandoned red onion half, still in cling wrap like it was waiting for something better. The kitchen smelled like afternoon. That soupy, salty stillness that sticks to your arms and makes you swear off soup forever.

I remembered Her Highness’s chicken salad recipe halfway through chewing an ice cube. Classic Martha—measured, tidy, a whisper of hot sauce like she’s letting her hair down just slightly. Parsley, lemon juice, mayo, mustard. Chicken treated like royalty. I’d seen it in a magazine once, next to a linen napkin and a glass of iced tea that looked expensive.

And there I was. In a cotton tank top, eating over the sink again.

What the Original Recipe Looked Like

Martha Stewart’s chicken salad isn’t loud. It’s composed. Clean flavors. Everything minced, not chopped—there’s a difference, she’d say. Chicken breast, parsley, red onion, celery, mayo, Dijon, lemon juice, salt, pepper. A dash of hot sauce if you dare (though she probably meant “Tabasco,” not the off-brand smoky stuff I keep in the door of the fridge).

Her Highness likes her greens precise. She lays the chicken salad gently over arugula like it’s being tucked in. Or folds it into a whole-grain sandwich like a Martha-shaped lunchbox kiss.

It’s good. I’ve made it before. But not like this.

What I Did Differently

I didn’t measure the mayo. Just added until it looked like something I’d want to eat on a bad day. I used lemon zest too—don’t know why. Maybe because it smelled like Mae’s cake. The one that caved in. The kitchen still carries a bit of sugar dust from that year, I swear.

Also, I didn’t bother with baby greens. I spooned it straight onto a torn heel of sourdough I found in the freezer. Toasted it until it nearly burnt. Nearly.

Didn’t fix it.

The Way It Happened in My Kitchen

I started with the onion. It made me tear up but not from feelings. Not yet. Chopped it too fine, like I was trying to make it disappear.

Mae was in the other room watching something loud and British. I asked if she wanted any. She didn’t answer. I took that as a no.

Mixed the chicken with the mayo, lemon, mustard, hot sauce. Added more salt than usual. My fingers were still wet from rinsing the parsley and I dropped a bit of it on the floor. The dog’s been gone two years and I still almost called his name.

Stirred everything with a fork, not a spoon. Felt more honest. Forks don’t pretend to smooth things over.

I ate the first bite standing. It was sharp. Cool. Creamy in a way I didn’t expect from such quiet ingredients. It lingered. Like a story I didn’t know I was still telling.

A Few Things I Learned

It’s better cold than I remembered.
The lemon doesn’t just lift it—it wakes it up.
And maybe food doesn’t need to fix anything. It just needs to sit beside you, quietly.

What I Did With the Extras

I put the rest in the green Pyrex bowl and left it in the fridge. Mae found it later and texted “this the chicken thing?” I said yes. She said “good.” That was all.

Would I Make It Again?

Yes. On a day like that. With no music. No plans. Just enough silence to hear the fork scrape the bowl.

That’s As Much As I Remember

The toast went cold by the end.
I didn’t care.

If cold and quiet are your thing, this reminded me of that pasta salad I made during the blackout. Just as accidental. Just as strange.

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