I Tried Martha Stewart’s Potato Salad—And It Tasted Like Leaving

I wasn’t hungry.
The windows were sweating.
Rain slid down the glass like it had something to prove. The kind of gray that flattens everything—even my appetite.
But I boiled water anyway. Peeled potatoes. Looked for the vinegar I swore I still had. And there it was, on the top shelf behind the tea tin that still smells like her. Vanilla and rust.

Martha’s red-skinned potato salad had been in my head since Tuesday.
No reason. Just a whisper of a craving.

What Her Highness’s Version Looked Like

Martha’s take is chilly and sharp—the kind of thing you’d bring to a Fourth of July table with tension under the lemonade. Red-skinned potatoes, peeled post-steam like polite little bodies. A splash of vinegar while they’re warm so they absorb, she says. Hellman’s. Buttermilk. Parsley if you’re feeling performative.

Cornichons, because she’s never met a gherkin she didn’t think needed rebranding.
And eggs. Sliced hard-boiled halos on top, like a peace offering no one eats.

What I Did Differently

I didn’t have buttermilk.
Used sour cream and a glug of milk I didn’t sniff first.
And I didn’t peel the potatoes. Not out of rebellion—just… forgot. They were already sliced when I remembered. So I whispered, “too late,” and kept going.

Oh—and I used dill pickles. The kind that snap like a screen door. Cornichons can sit this one out.

The Way It Happened in My Kitchen

I steamed the potatoes in the dented pot. The one I dropped the night I packed half my life into the back of the car. It still hisses when the lid shifts. So do I, some days.

While they softened, I grated the onion into a fog of tears and noise. Mae walked in asking if vinegar could expire. I said no. I lied. It smelled like gym socks and regret. Still used it.

The bowl was cold when I added the mayo.
It felt wrong to mix it with a spoon, so I used my hands. My thumb hit a warm potato coin and for a second—just a second—I thought about Provincetown. The sea salt. The laugh. The way he said “baby” like it meant nothing.

Anyway—

I folded in the pickles. Tasted. Needed something.
Squeeze of lemon. A shake of that ghost-pepper flake Mae dared me to buy.
It helped.

A Few Things I Learned

You can’t rush the soak.
Potatoes need that vinegar moment while they’re still whispering steam.
And mixing by hand brings something back. Texture, maybe. Or memory.

Also—don’t skip the white pepper. It’s Martha’s flex, and for once, I get it.

What I Did With the Extras

I stood in front of the fridge and ate half of it cold, with the fridge door wide open.
Mae came in, didn’t say anything, just grabbed a fork.
We didn’t use plates.

Would I Make It Again?

Yeah.
But not on a day like that.

That’s As Much As I Remember

The rain eased by the time the bowl was empty.
The window cleared.
Not me. But that’s fine.

This reminded me of that onion tart I made last spring. messier, but just as soft.

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