The lobster was on sale.
That’s the only reason I even looked. I wasn’t feeling coastal. I wasn’t feeling Her Highness. I was barefoot in a hot kitchen with a headache, and there was sand in the sink again, somehow.
But the moment I saw that recipe — just lobster, mayo, lemon, herbs if you’re fancy — I remembered a summer I don’t talk about much.
Provincetown. A boat I shouldn’t have stepped onto. A laugh I still hear when I salt anything too boldly.
So yeah. I made her lobster roll. But not the way she would’ve.
What the Original Looked Like
Martha’s version is all grace notes.
Just enough mayo. Tarragon if you’re being elegant. Lemon in careful drips. She calls for top-split buns — the kind that stand upright like little tuxedos. You brush them with butter, toast them like you care about symmetry, then nestle a polite scoop of lobster inside.
Her rolls aren’t messy. They’re an arrangement. A coastal haiku.
What I Did Differently (And Why I’m Not Sorry)
I didn’t have top-split buns. I had the squishy side-cut ones that flatten like memory foam.
Used dried tarragon, too — because that’s what I had in the jar with no label. I doubled the lemon, because I wanted to taste it. Wanted to feel it. No chives. Just salt. And more salt. And a crack of pepper that made me flinch a little.
I toasted the buns in a cast iron that still smells like the pork I burnt two nights ago. It worked. Sort of.
How It Happened In My Kitchen
The lobster was cold and sweet and stubborn to chop.
I remembered that green Pyrex bowl — the one I’ve had since college. Used that. Mixed it all by hand. Felt better.
When I added the lemon, I thought about that time in Provincetown. The sea salt. The kiss I shouldn’t have let happen. The way I still keep the tin, even though it’s rusted shut. It lives beside the broken zester. I don’t open either.
Mae walked through at some point, saw the buns, said “Ooo, fancy,” and kept walking. That helped. Reminded me it’s just food. Not a confession.
A Few Things I Learned
Tarragon still works, even when it’s old and stubborn.
Lobster doesn’t care what bun you use.
And toasting with too much butter? Not a sin. A salve.
Why I Used Dried Herbs And Side-Cut Buns
Because that’s what was in the kitchen.
Because I didn’t want to go out.
Because nostalgia doesn’t wait for the right ingredients — it just shows up and asks to be stirred in.
The dried tarragon still gave that soft anise hum. The buns held on. Barely. But they did.
FAQs
Sure. Thaw It Gently And Pretend You Didn’T. No One Will Know. Maybe Not Even You.
Then We Have Bigger Issues. But You Can Use A Dollop Of Greek Yogurt Or Even Melted Butter. Just Don’T Tell Martha.
Cold. But The Buns Should Be Hot. That Contrast Is Everything. Like Memory And Regret In A Single Bite.
You Can Mix The Filling A Few Hours Before. Not The Buns. Those Need To Be Fresh. Or At Least Pretend To Be.
Only If You Want To Taste Summer Correctly. Otherwise… Eat The Filling Straight From The Bowl. I’Ve Done It. Twice.
Check out More Recipes:
Martha Stewart Lobster Roll
Description
Salt, Lemon, And Longing In A Toasted Bun. That’S What It Was.
Ingredients
Optional if you’re feeling elegant:
Instructions
- Prepare the lobster mixture: Chop the cold lobster roughly and toss it in a bowl with mayonnaise (enough to coat, not drown). Add a generous squeeze of lemon. Sprinkle in dried tarragon if you’re like me and don’t have fresh. Salt it hard. Pepper if you feel like it. Stir until glossy. Chill it down while you toast the bread.
- Toast the buns: Brush side-cut buns with melted butter. Too much is just enough. Press them onto a hot pan until they smell golden. Flip. Do it again. Listen for that faint crunch.
- Assemble the rolls: Scoop the chilled lobster into the hot buns like you’re trying to impress someone — or forgive them. Let it drip a little. That’s part of it.