it started with the eggs.
not the ones I cooked—those were fine.
I mean the eggs. the carton I dropped on the kitchen floor last week when the dog barked at nothing and mae yelled from the bathroom about a spider.
I cleaned it. mostly.
but one rolled under the stove and I still haven’t checked on it. anyway—
I wasn’t planning on egg salad.
I wasn’t planning on much. the day felt like wet socks and fridge light.
but I found Martha’s version scribbled on the back of an old envelope I’d used to track what I owed the electric company. it had mayonnaise stains.
felt like a sign.
What I Did Differently (Don’t Tell Her)
martha’s version is a museum piece.
neat dice. perfect ratio. 8 eggs, a calm spoonful of dijon, tiny crunches of celery like punctuation marks. hot sauce, just a “dash”—because she always says few dashes like she’s never had a heavy hand in her life.
serve it on toast or tucked into watercress like it’s on a tea tray at a garden party where nobody cries in the bathroom.
it’s fine. it’s good.
it’s not me.
What I Did Differently (Don’t Tell Her)
I mashed the eggs more than I meant to.
added extra mustard because I was mad about something I couldn’t name.
no celery—forgot it, didn’t miss it. tossed in chopped dill pickles instead. sharp. honest.
and I used too much pepper. not on purpose. just… my hands were tired.
I didn’t toast the bread.
I didn’t have lettuce.
I had a heel of sourdough and a mood.
The Way It Happened In My Kitchen
Mae asked what that smell was—said it was “like school lunch but sadder.”
I told her it was rebellion.
she rolled her eyes and stole a bite anyway.
I stirred with the same spoon I dropped behind the stove last winter and never washed properly.
the one with the old burn mark on the handle shaped like Florida. or maybe Maine, upside down.
and while I stirred, I thought about the picnic we didn’t take last summer.
the one I packed for. the one he said he’d meet us at.
the one where I ate egg salad alone in the car with the windows down and the radio too loud.
this tasted like that.
but saltier. sharper. more mine.
A Few Things I Learned
- pickle brine changes everything.
- stirring slowly helps. not with flavor, just… helps.
- it’s better eaten cold, alone, over the sink. especially if you don’t use a plate.
What I Did With the Extras
Mae said it was “fine” and went back to her room.
I put the rest in a jar and forgot about it until three days later.
ate it with crackers while reading an old letter I shouldn’t have kept.
it held up.
Would I Make Them Again?
probably. if I’m mad. or if it rains and I need something with bite.
That’s As Much As I Remember
I don’t know.
something about the way the mustard hit made me feel awake again.
like the kind of awake that comes after a long cry and a short nap.
maybe that’s what I needed more than lunch.
If you’re in the mood for something that tastes like memory and mustard, I made a version of her potato salad last June that hit the same nerve. less sharp. more soft.
FAQs
You can. but i won’t talk to you for a week.
Skip ‘em. or use celery if you want to make Her Highness proud. or capers if you want to taste like regret and brine. your call.
Not really. egg salad warm is like old socks in july. chill it. trust me.
No. i’ve eaten it off a spoon. mae once used tortilla chips. we’ve all been there.
Check out More Recipes:
- Martha Stewart Crab Cakes Recipe
- Martha Stewart Coleslaw
- Martha Stewart Sweet Potato Casserole
- Martha Stewart Creamed Spinach
- Martha Stewart Potatoes Au Gratin
Martha Stewart Egg Salad
Description
Sharp, salty, and a little broken—like that day, like me.
Ingredients
Instructions
- Boil the eggs: put them in cold water, brought it to a boil, turned the heat off and waited. forgot the timer. peeled them under running water while thinking about that picnic we never had. a few shells stuck. it’s fine.
- Mash the eggs: dropped them into the green Pyrex bowl. the one with the chip. fork-mashed until chunky, not smooth. i like texture. needed something to bite back.
- Build the mix: added mayo, more than she said. then mustard. didn’t measure. just kept squeezing until it looked right. chopped pickles. dumped them in. stirred slow. peppered like it owed me something.
- Taste and fix: too bland. added a splash of brine and a pinch of salt. maybe two. stirred again. tasted again. better. maybe even good.
- Serve or don’t: found a sad slice of bread, skipped the toasting. no lettuce. not in the mood for green. spooned the salad on with more force than necessary. ate it standing up. mae took one bite and shrugged. i didn’t.