It was quiet in that hard kind of way. Like the kitchen didn’t want me in it.
Fridge was humming louder than usual. I hadn’t done dishes. The lemon zester was in the sink under something congealed. Mae’s socks on the floor like always. I didn’t want to cook. I wanted something already made. But there were eggs.
Two.
Just two left in the carton, which felt like a dare.
I remembered Her Highness’s egg salad tea sandwiches—perfect, pale, trimmed into quiet little quarters like they were ready for a garden party without rain. She used dill. She used mustard. She chilled the eggs like it mattered.
I didn’t have parsley. Or patience. But I had a fork and an almost-clean bowl.
What the Original Looked Like
Martha’s egg salad tea sandwiches are polite.
Hard-boiled eggs, mashed into grace. Mayo, yogurt, a dollop of Dijon—then dill and parsley for color. Everything soft. Even the bread. White, crustless, whisper-thin rectangles.
You can see the photo in your head, can’t you?
The kind of sandwich you serve with chilled rosé and cucumber water in glass pitchers.
Not what I made.
What I Did Differently
No parsley.
Bread was whole wheat, dry at the edges, slightly freezer-burned if I’m being honest.
I used a fat spoon of mustard, probably more than she meant. Skipped the yogurt entirely—didn’t feel like opening a new tub just to have it rot behind the pickles again.
Also… I didn’t trim them. Not even a corner. I bit straight in like a raccoon with something to prove.
The Way It Happened in My Kitchen
I boiled the eggs too long.
Not on purpose—just forgot the timer. Thought about the dent in the Dutch oven while they bubbled, even though it wasn’t involved. I always think about that pan when I’m waiting for something to crack.
Peeled them under running water like Nan used to do. Her shells always came off perfect. Mine? Took a nail.
The yolks were on the edge of green but I didn’t care.
I mashed them with the back of a spoon.
Used the end of a mayo jar. Stirred too fast.
Added the mustard, and it looked like something you’d eat only because you already made it.
Mae wandered in, sniffed, said “Is that what depression smells like?”
She wasn’t wrong.
I made the sandwiches.
Two. Didn’t cut them fancy.
Ate one standing up.
The other I wrapped in foil like I was saving it for later.
(I wasn’t.)
A Few Things I Learned
Don’t make egg salad on a tired day unless you want it to taste like one.
It’s better warm. I said what I said.
Too much mustard can be a blessing if the bread’s sad.
And sometimes, when Mae’s not looking, I do still trim the crusts. Just to see if it feels like care.
It doesn’t always.
What I Did With the Extras
Left the foil sandwich in the fridge.
Ate it around midnight, cold. Over the sink.
No plate. Just the sound of the refrigerator and the click of the dog’s nails on the tile.
Would I Make It Again?
Maybe.
If the eggs are already boiled.
If I need something that doesn’t expect too much from me.
That’s As Much As I Remember
The yolks weren’t yellow enough.
The crusts stayed on.
The kitchen was still quiet when I left it.
But the fridge felt lighter.
If you need something warmer, I did a leek thing last December that hit harder. not pretty, but louder.
FAQs
Yeah, But Eat It The Same Day If You Can. The Bread Goes Weird If You Wait Too Long. Like… Sponge-Weird.
Skip It. Or Use More Mayo. Or Sour Cream If You’Re Brave And It’S Not Expired. I Once Used Cream Cheese And Didn’T Hate It.
Absolutely Not. Unless You’Re Serving The Queen. Or Your Mother-In-Law. I Left Them On. Felt Honest.
Yes. Use What You Have. The Fancy Stuff Is Nice But Not Required. Sometimes Cheap Mustard Hits Harder Anyway.
A Day, Maybe Two. After That, It Starts To Smell Like Regret. Wrap It Tight. Label It If You Live With Thieves.
Check out More Recipes:
Martha Stewart Egg Salad Tea Sandwiches
Description
Soft, Messy, Mustard-Heavy, And Eaten Standing Up. That Kind Of Day.
Ingredients
Instructions
- Boil the eggs: Toss two eggs in a pot. Forget to set the timer. Let them bubble longer than Martha would approve. Hope for yellow yolks, get the green rim instead. Doesn’t matter. Let them cool with the window cracked.
- Mash the eggs: Peel under cold water, cursing one that won’t give up its shell. Toss both into a bowl and mash with the back of a fork. Or a spoon. Or whatever’s clean.
- Make the mix: Add a big spoon of mayonnaise (last of the jar, scrape the sides), skip the yogurt (or use it if it’s open), and stir in a reckless amount of Dijon. It should smell sharp. That’s good.
- Season like you mean it: Sprinkle in dill—dried is fine. No parsley in the fridge, so skip it or throw in something green. Salt until it tastes like something. Pepper if you’re feeling generous.
- Build the sandwiches: Grab the bread. Not soft white, but the sad whole wheat in the freezer. Toasted a little if you’re cold. Spoon the egg salad on thick, edge to edge. Stack and press down like you mean it.
- Cut—or don’t: If the day feels tender, trim the crusts. If it feels like survival, leave them. Slice diagonally if you must. Or eat straight from the board, standing barefoot in the kitchen, wondering what time it is.