The kitchen didn’t feel cold exactly—just… unfinished. Like a sentence someone started and walked away from. I hadn’t planned to cook. The fridge was humming like it had something to prove, and the meat was already thawed from last week when I thought guests might come. They didn’t. I made the rib roast anyway.
Her Highness calls it Standing Rib Roast with Red Wine Jus. I call it Saturday without a soundtrack.
What The Original Looked Like
Martha’s version doesn’t flinch. It’s carved from confidence.
Three-rib prime roast, trimmed and tied like it’s about to attend a black-tie event. Salted like ceremony, blasted with heat for twenty unapologetic minutes, then coaxed toward doneness like it’s being told a bedtime story—slow, even, precise. She nests the short ribs underneath like footmen in service.
And of course, the jus. Wine poured like an offering, scraped with elegance. Reduced until it behaves.
It’s a dish that assumes people will arrive on time.
What I Did Differently
I didn’t tie anything.
Didn’t even have twine.
The roast sat loose in the pan like it knew I wasn’t in the mood to make it pretty.
I only salted one side because I got distracted looking for the sea salt from Provincetown—the one I bought on that trip I shouldn’t have taken. Couldn’t find it. Used the kosher kind from the back shelf. It worked. Kind of.
I didn’t measure the pepper. I just shook until it smelled like something was happening.
The Way It Happened In My Kitchen
Preheated the oven. Forgot why.
Found the roast still stiff on the counter, the plastic half-pulled like a bad reveal. It made a thud when I dropped it in the pan—my old roasting pan, warped on one side from that time the broiler caught.
Short ribs went in like an afterthought. They slid down the side and got lost in the fat.
I opened the oven too soon—steam hit my face like a warning.
Closed it again. Waited.
Mae walked in asking if it was going to “smell weird again.”
I said no. Lied.
I tapped the Dutch oven on the stove while the meat cooked. The dent’s deeper than I remember. I don’t talk about that night, but I remember the sound it made when I dropped it.
When the meat finally hit 115°F, I didn’t trust it. Stuck the thermometer in three more spots like it owed me proof.
I let it rest, untouched. No foil. No prayer. Just the sound of something cooling while I stared out the window.
The jus nearly burned. I poured the wine in too fast and it hissed like something mad. Scraped it anyway. Red bubbles. Black bits. Smelled like regret and February.
A Few Things I Learned
Don’t walk away when the wine hits the pan. It needs watching. Like a memory.
The meat doesn’t need much—just heat and space.
Letting it rest without a tent? Smart. For once, Her Highness was right.
What I Did With the Extras
I ate a short rib cold the next morning, standing in my socks. Mae didn’t want any. She said it looked like something from a history book. She wasn’t wrong.
Would I Make It Again
Maybe. If someone was coming. If I needed to taste that day again. Maybe not.
That’s As Much As I Remember
It got dark fast after I turned the oven off. The pan sat on the counter longer than it should’ve. The smell stuck around.
I opened the window, but the air didn’t move.
If you want something warmer, I did a leek thing last December that hit harder.
FAQs
Yep. martha treats them like a bonus track. it still works without them—just maybe a little less dramatic.
I mean… yes. unless you like guessing and pacing in front of the oven like i do. it’s not glamorous, just helps.
Whatever you’ve got that isn’t sweet. i used something leftover from a dinner that never happened. tasted like closure.
Sort of. the meat dries if you’re not gentle. but the jus holds up. reheat low and slow. or eat it cold like i did.
Check out More Recipes:
- Martha Stewart Prime Rib
- Martha Stewart Beef Stew
- Martha Stewart Vegetable Lasagna
- Martha Stewart Meatloaf Recipe
- Martha Stewart Roasted Turkey Breast
Martha Stewart Rib Roast
Ingredients
Instructions
- Prepare the roast: pulled the meat from the fridge, still too cold. salted it with one hand while looking for the sea salt I couldn’t find. used the boxed kind. peppered until my wrist got tired. didn’t tie it. couldn’t be bothered.
Strain and serve: poured it through a sieve with one hand, pressed the solids with the other. they gave up slowly. served the meat with the jus still steaming. short ribs disappeared first. no one admitted it. - Set the pan: grabbed the old roasting pan—the one with the warped edge. dropped the roast in, fat side up. it shifted like it didn’t want to be there. threw the short ribs in without grace. they looked lost.
- Roast it hot, then slow: blasted the oven at 450°. shoved the pan in. twenty minutes of sizzle and silence. dropped it to 325° and tried not to check it every five. stuck the thermometer in early. then again. and again. finally hit 115°. probably.
- Let it rest: moved it to a platter. no foil. no fuss. just sat there. meat quieted. so did i. didn’t clean up. just watched it breathe.
- Make the jus: put the pan on the burner and turned the heat high. wine went in hard—too fast. it hissed and shouted. scraped it with the old wooden spoon, the one with the burn mark. added the drippings, skipped the fat. let it bubble and darken. didn’t measure a thing.