it started with the onion.
not the usual crying. just… the sharpness of it.
like I wasn’t ready for anything that precise.
I’d made Martha Stewart’s guacamole before—years back, when Mae was still letting me pack her lunch and the world felt less pointed.
back when I thought cilantro was optional and so was my marriage.
but this time the bowl felt heavier.
and I wasn’t really hungry.
What the Original Looked Like
Her Highness calls for four avocados—nothing less, nothing clever.
she has you mash them light, leave them lumpy, like she knows texture forgives a lot.
then it’s lime. tomato. jalapeño. a hit of garlic that feels like a dare.
onion, chopped sharp.
cilantro, full-handed.
salt and pepper like punctuation.
it’s structured. no fanfare.
like something she’s done a hundred times while the staff resets the table behind her.
What I Did Differently
I halved it.
only had two avocados. one was bruised.
used it anyway.
swapped lemon for lime because that’s what I had.
used the green-tinged garlic I keep pretending to throw out.
and I chopped everything too slowly.
no tomato.
not on purpose. just forgot.
and I used dried cilantro.
don’t come for me. I was tired.
The Way It Happened in My Kitchen
the avocados were colder than they should’ve been—forgot to take them out.
mashed them with a fork that used to be part of a set
(I think the rest went in the divorce)
Mae texted in the middle of it. said “do we still have the red bowl?”
I didn’t answer. just looked at the bowl I was using.
not red. not clean. just available.
the lemon was soft.
I squeezed it too hard. got a seed in the bowl and left it.
I chopped the onion last.
everything smelled like that summer in Provincetown—sea salt, heat, and the wrong kind of hope.
mixed it all with a spoon that had salsa on it already.
didn’t care.
ate half with stale tortilla chips.
stood over the sink. didn’t speak.
A Few Things I Learned
it’s better lumpy
and better alone
you can taste memory in an avocado
if you let it sit just long enough
cilantro doesn’t forgive—but it forgets fast
What I Did With the Extras
Mae came by later.
asked if it was Martha’s version.
said it smelled like 2017.
she finished the bowl with one of those bamboo spoons I hate.
said it was “fine.”
I said yeah. it was.
Would I Make It Again?
probably.
but not for a party.
That’s As Much As I Remember
I washed the bowl.
didn’t dry it.
just set it upside down and walked away.
FAQs
You Can. But It’Ll Brown A Little, Even If You Cover It. Doesn’T Mean It’S Bad—Just A Bit Tired-Looking. Like All Of Us By Dinner.
Only If Your JalapeñO’S In A Mood. Mine Wasn’T. But You Can Always Add More Or Whisper In Some Hot Sauce. I Won’T Tell Martha.
Then Skip It. Or Use Parsley And Pretend. Or Just Leave It Green And Lumpy And Honest. It’Ll Still Be Yours.
I Did. Out Of Necessity, Not Genius. Still Worked. Slightly Less Punch, More Melancholy. But Fine.
Spread It On Toast. Scoop It With Carrots. Use A Spoon And Stand By The Fridge. No Judgment. I’Ve Done All Three.
Check out More Recipes:
- Martha Stewart’S Yorkshire Pudding
- Martha Stewart’s Chocolate Whoopie Pies
- Martha Stewart’s Mac and Cheese
- Martha Stewart’S Poached Chicken
Martha Stewart Guacamole
Description
Soft And Bitter, With Just Enough Bite To Keep You Awake.
Ingredients
Instructions
- Cut the avocados : Halved two ripe avocados—one was bruised on the side, but I scooped around it. Used a dull knife because I didn’t feel like washing the good one.
- Mash gently : Dropped the flesh into a bowl that still smelled faintly like toast. Mashed it with a fork—nothing fancy. Left some chunks. Didn’t overthink it.
- Add the lemon juice : Squeezed in a tablespoon of lemon juice (no limes in the fridge). One seed slipped in. Left it there. Figured it wouldn’t kill me.
- Chop and add the extras : Chopped a bit of red onion—not measured, just enough to notice. Minced one small garlic clove, took out the green middle because it made me nervous. Tossed both in.
- Season it up : Shook in a pinch of dried cilantro—didn’t bloom it, didn’t apologize. Added salt and black pepper till it tasted like something I used to eat with someone I don’t talk to anymore.
- Stir and serve : Mixed it with a spoon that had salsa on it earlier. Didn’t clean it first. Ate it over the sink with stale chips. Called it lunch. Called it memory.