The jar already had something in it.
Hard to say what. Looked like lemon pulp and regret. I rinsed it half-heartedly, left one seed floating, didn’t care.
I wasn’t going to make a vinaigrette. I was going to order pizza.
But the Dijon stared me down like it had something to prove. And Her Highness’s vinaigrette recipe had been bookmarked on the fridge since 2004. Probably my mother’s doing. Or mine. I forget who started keeping Martha’s instructions taped up like commandments.
Anyway. I made it. Sort of.
What the Original Looked Like
Martha’s vinaigrette is as proper as a linen napkin.
White-wine vinegar. Dijon. Salt, pepper, pinch of sugar. Olive oil in slow, steady ribbons like you’re serenading the salad. She emulsifies like she means it.
I’ve seen the video—her wrist doesn’t even flinch.
It’s a real thing of grace. The kind of dressing that doesn’t shout. Just exists—quiet and balanced and better than your instincts.
If I followed it exactly, I know it would’ve worked.
But I didn’t.
What I Did Differently (And Why I’m Not Sorry)
I added garlic.
Not a clove. A whole smashed mess of it. Raw. Sharp. Borderline rude.
And I swapped the white-wine vinegar for apple cider because that’s what I had, and honestly, it felt more honest.
I didn’t whisk slow. I poured the olive oil in like I was late for something.
Which I was.
I forgot the sugar. Then remembered. Added too much. Didn’t care.
The Way It Happened in My Kitchen
I used the green Pyrex bowl I’ve had since college—the one with the chip.
Whisked with the same fork I use for eggs and bad ideas. Mae wandered through and said, “Smells like anger.”
She wasn’t wrong. The garlic hit first, like a slap.
But once the oil wrapped around it, it mellowed. Or maybe I did.
I tasted it and thought about my grandmother’s pie crust. Always dry, always perfect in her eyes. This vinaigrette felt like the opposite—slippery, messy, acidic.
Alive.
The dented Dutch oven sat in the drying rack, still stained from whatever I last tried to braise.
I touched it. Then kept whisking.
I didn’t measure the pepper. Just poured until it looked like too much. Which meant it was probably just right.
A Few Things I Learned
Martha’s vinaigrette works. But mine spoke.
Like it had something to say about the day.
It bit back at first. Then settled. Like I do. Sometimes.
Letting it sit changed everything. The garlic softened. The mustard grew up a little. The vinegar stopped screaming.
I wish more things did that with time.
What I Did With the Extras
I dunked cold roast chicken into it. Over the sink. Mae tried it. Made a face. Then asked for more.
We didn’t use plates. Just fingers and napkins from the glove compartment.
I don’t know why those were in the kitchen.
Would I Make It Again?
Yes. Not because it was perfect.
Because it felt real.
That’s As Much As I Remember
The fridge buzzed louder after I finished. Like it had something to say, too.
I put the rest in a jam jar with no label.
Maybe it’ll still be good tomorrow. Maybe not.
But it helped today.
FAQs
Nope. i used apple cider. red wine works too. just not balsamic—unless you want something moodier.
Sure. but why would you? unless you’re kissing someone later, i guess.
In theory, a week in the fridge. in practice, until you forget it’s there or knock it over reaching for the pickles.
You can. but the fork feels better. more personal. more “i made this” and less “machine did it.”
Check out More Recipes:
Martha Stewart Vinaigrette
Description
Punchy, garlicky, and stubborn as hell—just like that day.
Ingredients
Instructions
- Make the base: dumped the vinegar and mustard into the Pyrex. added the salt, pepper, and a sugar pinch that turned into more than a pinch. didn’t apologize. garlic went in last—raw and loud.
- Whisk like you mean it: grabbed the old fork, not the whisk. stirred like I was thinking too hard. it splashed. I kept going. looked muddy at first. then creamy. like it wanted to be more than it was.
- Add the oil: poured the olive oil fast. too fast. didn’t stream. just splashed in while mae asked something about college deadlines. kept whisking. the bowl slipped once. caught it with my elbow. still counts.
- Let it sit: tasted it too soon—acidic, arrogant. left it alone while I wiped the counter. came back and it had softened. like it forgave me for rushing.
- Store and forget: poured it into a jam jar with no lid. used foil instead. shoved it behind the mayo. wrote “don’t toss” on the foil. mae rolled her eyes. didn’t matter. tasted better the next day. always does.