The kitchen smelled like oil before I even started.
Not the clean kind. The kind that lingers in your clothes and hair and makes you wonder if anyone nearby will comment. It was too early in the day to fry things. But I’d found two onions rolling in the back of the drawer like they were hiding. And Her Highness’s onion rings had been clipped to the fridge for weeks, grease-stained from something else.
I wasn’t craving them. I just… needed to batter something.
What the Original Looked Like
Martha’s version reads like a blueprint for restraint.
Flour in two stages. Lager or pilsner, nothing cloudy or wild. A bath in cold beer and baking powder like a spa for vegetables. She’s exacting about her oil — 375°F, nothing less. Paper towels, wire racks, oven holding zones. It’s neat. Controlled. Very Her Highness.
And I’ll admit — when she gets it golden, it’s golden.
But there’s no way she dirtied only two bowls. She lies about cleanup.
What I Did Differently
I used seltzer. No beer in the house.
The wine was open but felt like a mistake. So seltzer, ice water, and whatever faith I had left in carbonation. I forgot the white pepper. Used black. And I sliced the onions thicker than she asked, because I was distracted by the dog barking at the mail slot again.
I also didn’t preheat the oven. I knew I wouldn’t have any left to warm.
The Way It Happened In My Kitchen
Mae wandered in right as I dropped the first one. She asked if it was breakfast.
I didn’t answer. The oil hissed like a warning. I’d used the Dutch oven again, the dented one. The one I dropped the night I packed the car with nothing but cookbooks and a half-dead basil plant. I tapped the rim with the tongs — muscle memory — like knocking on someone’s door before entering.
The first batch overbrowned. not burnt. just loud.
I panicked, flicked the heat down, and dipped another ring in with my fingers instead of the fork. Bad idea. I said a word Mae pretended not to hear.
The batter clung in places, slipped off in others.
I didn’t care. The seltzer fizzed up like it had something to prove.
They came out messier than Martha’s. More jagged, like tempura made by someone with too many thoughts. But good. Crunchy in a way that felt accidental. I salted them like I meant it.
The dog got one. Mae stole three. I kept the ugly ones.
A Few Things I Learned
The batter’s better when it rests a bit. Not long. Just enough time to regret starting.
Seltzer works. Probably not what Martha would do, but it worked.
And if you burn your finger, don’t ice it — just eat something hot and forget.
What I Did With the Extras
There weren’t any. We stood over the stove and ate them like feral raccoons.
No plates. No napkins. Just fingertips and heat.
Would I Make It Again?
If the onions roll toward me like that again — yeah.
That’s As Much As I Remember
The oil cooled down. The house didn’t smell better. But I felt quieter.
Sometimes you don’t fry for flavor. You fry for feeling.
If you want something warmer, I did a leek thing last December that hit harder. softer, too.
FAQs
Sure. they’re sweeter, but the color gets weird. doesn’t matter once you’re eating over the sink.
for a bit. maybe an hour if you’re lucky. best right out of the pan. after that, they get… honest.
not really. i mean, you can, but don’t blame me when they taste like sadness. some things need oil.
cold water and a prayer. still works. not as bubbly, but the crunch shows up if you want it bad enough.
Check Out More Recipes:
Martha Stewart Onion Rings
Description
They came out crooked, salty, and exactly what I needed that day.
Ingredients
Instructions
- Make the flour mixture: whisked the flour, salt, pepper, baking powder in a bowl that still smelled like last week’s batter. added the seltzer and ice water. slow pour. whisked till it looked like pancake mix on a tired morning. let it sit. it needed the pause.
- Prep the dredge: dumped the rest of the flour in a shallow dish. wide enough to toss things, but still made a mess. used my hands. didn’t regret it.
- Heat the oil: filled the dented dutch oven with too much peanut oil. turned the heat up like i meant business. waited for that shimmer, that almost-sinister ripple. no thermometer. i watched it like a hawk. or maybe like a kid watching a storm roll in.
- Coat the onions: tossed the rings in the dry flour. shook them out like old laundry. then dipped them, one by one, into the batter. thick, gloopy, clinging in odd places. let the extra drip. i tried to be patient. wasn’t.
- Fry the rings: slid them into the oil like i was apologizing. they puffed, sizzled, snapped at me. turned golden too fast. pulled them when they looked tired and crisp. did small batches. eight at a time, give or take. let the oil breathe between rounds.
- Drain and salt: pulled them out with the spider strainer. dropped onto paper towels. salted fast while they were still steaming and vulnerable. mae stole two while pretending to look for the ketchup.
- Serve: never made it to a plate. we stood. we ate. we didn’t talk much. that was enough.