I Tried Martha Stewart’s Spaghetti Squash — Here’s What Happened

The radiator made its little death rattle again, and I didn’t want soup. I wanted silence. Something warm but stringy. Something I could fork through over and over without thinking too hard. The squash was just… there. On the counter. Still had the sticker from Hannaford on it. Her Highness’s spaghetti squash recipe had been folded into the side of my fridge for weeks—torn from an old issue, next to Mae’s orthodontist reminder and that magnet from Provincetown that never sticks straight.

The light was weird that afternoon. Blue, like February was pretending to be spring.

What the Original Looked Like

Martha’s version is tidy, of course. She roasts the squash cut side down—clean parchment, golden edges, not a rogue seed in sight. She finishes it with parsley, lemon juice, olive oil (measured), and the tiniest dusting of Parmesan “if desired.” Her Highness doesn’t desire often, but when she does, it’s always just enough. I remember reading the page and thinking—this looks like a dish for someone who irons napkins.

But I made it anyway. I always do. Eventually.

What I Did Differently

I didn’t have fresh parsley. Had that dry jar from last summer—lid cracked, still smelled okay. Used that. Doubled the lemon without meaning to. Forgot I’d already squeezed some, then went back in. And the cheese? Not a whisper. A blanket. Mae likes it better that way, though she doesn’t say it outright. Just eats faster when it’s cheesy.

Also added extra salt. That sea salt I shouldn’t still be using. From the Provincetown trip. The one with too much wine and too many feelings. Still good on squash, though.

The Way It Happened in My Kitchen

The oven door stuck a little when I opened it—always does in winter. I set the squash down face-first like Martha said, but mine leaked. A thin hiss of steam and some juice pooling underneath like it was bleeding.

The smell reminded me of that time I tried roasting a pumpkin with Mae and forgot the cinnamon. She said it “tasted like a gourd with trauma.” She wasn’t wrong.

While it roasted, I stood near the window. Thought about putting laundry in. Didn’t. The radiator ticked. I poked at the green Pyrex bowl, wondering when I last used it. Might’ve been that onion tart I made when the fridge broke.

After scraping the strands out (too early, it burned my hand—I didn’t wait), I tossed it in the bowl with lemon, olive oil, that stubborn parsley. It looked dry. I added more oil. Still looked dry. So I ignored it and grated cheese like I was mad at it.

Ate standing up. Mae was at her dad’s. House too quiet. The squash clung to the fork like it didn’t want to let go.

What I Learned

Don’t skimp on the lemon. Not if your heart’s a little tired.

That dry parsley still works if you crush it in your hand first. Let it release something.

And sometimes the simpler the food, the louder it tastes when the room is silent.

What I Did With the Extras

There weren’t any. I scraped the bowl clean. Used a spoon near the end, even though it was stringy. It still worked. Like picking at a memory you half-remember.

Would I Make It Again?

Yeah. On the next blue-light day when the radiator won’t stop coughing.

That’s As Much As I Remember

I tossed the parchment. Didn’t fold it back onto the fridge. Just… let it go. The magnet still won’t stay upright. But it’s still there. Like the salt.

If you’re after something warmer, I did a leek thing last December that hit harder.

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