The fridge was too full of noise—lemon halves, a plastic bag of parsley that smelled like rain, a jar of jam from 2002 i’ll never open.
I didn’t want to cook. I just wanted something cold and not sweet.
I was standing in socks—wet, from the sink—and there it was.
A printout of her highness’s shrimp cocktail recipe. Faded ink, a sauce smear across “horseradish.”
I hadn’t made it in years. Not since—
No. Doesn’t matter.
But it used to mean something fancy.
Now it just meant… quiet.
What the Original Looked Like
Martha’s shrimp cocktail is precise, of course.
Stocked and structured—carrots, thyme, whole peppercorns like polished pebbles. She simmers everything just long enough, then drops the shrimp in like royalty arriving late.
Even the lemons get treated with ceremony—half squeezed, half sliced, all very “summer yacht energy.”
The sauce is clean. Straightforward. Ketchup plus horseradish with that “optional” Tabasco that’s clearly not optional if you’ve got a pulse.
I respect it. I do.
But I didn’t follow it like scripture.
I was in a different kind of mood.
What I Did Differently (And Why I’m Not Sorry)
I skipped the carrots.
Didn’t feel like sweetness.
Used dried thyme instead of sprigs—because that’s what I had. Because I didn’t want to go out. Because I don’t always have fresh things anymore.
And I added garlic.
Because my father used to crush it barehanded and rub his fingers with lemon after, and if I don’t let him into the pot somehow, I forget how he smelled.
The cocktail sauce? I made it angrier.
More horseradish. Less ketchup. A heavy pour of hot sauce that wasn’t Martha’s brand, but mine.
And a crack of pepper so aggressive it startled Mae, who was pretending not to listen from the hallway.
How It Happened in My Kitchen
I boiled the water too fast.
Didn’t measure the salt.
Let the lemon rind slip in like a secret I wasn’t proud of keeping.
The shrimp curled on themselves, fast—blushing pink and silent.
I fished them out with the slotted spoon that still smells like cinnamon from the time my ex made “spaghetti surprise.” god.
The ice tray was a baking sheet, because I don’t own a proper one anymore. I laid them out like little commas, trying to pause the day.
Mae came in and said, “Why are you making party food on a Tuesday?”
I said nothing.
Then, “It’s not party food. It’s memory food.”
She took one, dipped it in the bowl, didn’t flinch at the heat.
“Too much horseradish,” she said.
I nodded. “Not enough, if you ask me.”
A Few Things I Learned
Lemons can smell like different decades, depending on what you’re cooking.
Garlic belongs in everything.
And shrimp, even cold, still taste like summer if you close your eyes.
What I Did With the Extras
Ate them standing up.
Sauce smeared on the back of my hand like a bruise I didn’t bother wiping.
Mae took the last one and didn’t say thanks.
Didn’t have to.
Would I Make It Again?
When I need to remember something sharp.
Something clean.
Something I used to think meant celebration, but now just means I’m still here.
That’s As Much As I Remember
The lemon smelled like his hands again.
And the shrimp were cold enough to make me feel like a person.
If you want something softer, I made Her Highness’s creamy potato soup last February when I couldn’t feel my fingers. This wasn’t that. Not even close.
FAQs
yep. I did. just make sure they’re the big ones and thaw them first or the broth will throw a fit.
technically no—but also, yes. it’s the only reason the shrimp taste like something you meant to make
depends on your pour. mine had a bit of a kick—mae dipped one and said “rude,” so that’s the scale we’re working with.
you can. I did. they’re good cold the next day. just keep the sauce in a separate jar so it doesn’t stain everything red like a crime scene.
then it’s just ketchup with lemon and hope. not terrible, but you’ll miss the drama.
Check out More Recipes:
Martha Stewart Shrimp Cocktail
Description
It Didn’T Feel Like Celebration. It Felt Like Closure. And Maybe That Was Better.
Ingredients
For the sauce:
Instructions
- fill a large pot with water—enough to make a mess if it boils over.
toss in a stalk of celery (break it with your hands), a pinch or two of dried thyme, a smashed garlic clove (or two, if you need company), a dried bay leaf, a heavy shake of kosher salt, and about half a teaspoon of whole peppercorns (more if you’re feeling loud). - cut a lemon in half. squeeze both halves into the pot, then drop them in too.
let the whole thing come to a wild, rolling boil while you stare out the window or argue with yourself. - once it’s boiling like it means it, drop in 2 pounds of large shrimp (shell on).
kill the heat. cover the pot. walk away for 3 to 4 minutes—enough time to think about something you forgot on purpose. - check them. if they’re pink and curled, they’re done. if not, wait another minute.
scoop them out with a slotted spoon, and lay them on a tray filled with ice—or frozen peas, if you forgot the ice. - let them cool completely. don’t rush it.
once they’re chilled, peel the shrimp but leave the tails if you’re feeling nostalgic.
use a small knife to run down the back and pull the vein out gently. some won’t have one. don’t overthink it. - for the cocktail sauce, grab a bowl.
add ¾ cup ketchup, a splash of lemon juice (fresh if possible), and as much horseradish as your week can handle—start with 1 tablespoon, taste, then double it.
crack in a bunch of black pepper. add a dash (or glug) of hot sauce. stir. taste again. it should punch a little. - serve cold. shrimp on a plate, sauce in a small bowl. lemon wedges if you remembered.
eat standing. talk only if you want to.