The milk was already sour. not enough to ruin the cake—just enough to make me remember the fridge in the old place. the one with the broken crisper drawer that caught my fingernail every damn time.
That’s the mood I was in when I found Her Highness’s White Cake recipe again. Folded inside a watermarked binder I hadn’t opened since Mae was small. Back when she’d call butter “yellow soft” and ask if eggs had feelings. There was a jam stain on the corner. peach, I think. from that summer I thought I was in love with someone I wasn’t supposed to be in love with. we made cake then too. badly.
Anyway.
This version was supposed to be clean. Martha’s white-on-white perfection. butter creamed just right. egg whites whipped to gentle peaks. It read like a lullaby written in sugar. You fold the flour in like it’s your second child. you don’t rush. you don’t forget.
But I did forget. something.
What The Original Looked Like
Her Highness’s version is the kind of cake you bring to a christening. or a mother-in-law. elegant and pale. like it’s never been yelled at. whole milk. cake flour. a full tablespoon of vanilla—which hit me hard, because I still can’t open that bottle without thinking of the Christmas before everything split.
The layers are baked evenly in buttered pans. cooled on racks like they’re waiting for polite conversation. frosted with Swiss meringue that holds its shape like pride.
It’s a white cake with a clean conscience.
What I Did Differently
I didn’t have cake flour.
Didn’t even pretend I was going to find it. Used all-purpose and a spoonful of cornstarch because some old memory told me that was “close enough.” Forgot to warm the eggs. Used vanilla bean paste instead of extract. Not on purpose. I just grabbed the wrong bottle. The kitchen smelled like the year Mae spilled that entire bottle of vanilla into the heating vent. Took weeks to fade.
I didn’t whip the whites separately. I know. Heresy. But the bowl was already dirty from the batter and I didn’t want to do more dishes. My frosting didn’t stand tall. But it sighed sweetly, and that was enough.
The Way It Happened in My Kitchen
Started with butter—always do.
Softened just past polite. Not melted, just loose. Like me, that morning.
I creamed it with sugar while the kettle hissed. The radio said something about coastal winds. I didn’t listen. The mixer whirred like it remembered too much.
Mae walked in halfway through. Looked at the mixing bowl and said, “That for me or your ghosts?”
I laughed too loud. she wasn’t wrong.
The flour went in too fast. I got distracted—burnt toast again. Always a sign. I scraped it. Kept going.
When I poured it into the pans, I remembered Nan’s pie crust. Dry as sin, but she made it every year like it was gospel. This batter was nothing like that. smooth. giving. almost soft enough to fix things.
I watched it rise through the oven window, sitting on the floor like I used to when I was too pregnant to stand.
The frosting collapsed a little. The middle sank. But the edges browned gold. Her Highness wouldn’t have approved. But I did. sort of.
A Few Things I Learned
Vanilla smells louder when you’re alone.
You can taste a memory in sugar if you stir long enough.
And cake doesn’t care if you’re still wearing yesterday’s socks.
What I Did With the Extras
Left half on the counter. Mae cut slices without a plate. The knife stuck to the frosting and she didn’t wipe it between cuts. I didn’t care.
The rest went into the fridge in a foil cocoon. I forgot it was there. Found it three days later. Cold. Dense. Still good.
Would I Make It Again
Yes.
But only when the house feels too quiet and I need the oven to talk back.
That’s As Much As I Remember
The fridge still hums like the old one did. The cake cooled too fast. I didn’t. But something about the smell—vanilla and butter and something almost burnt—made it easier to sit still for a while.
If you want something warmer, I did a cheesy potato mess last week you might like. burnt the top. loved it anyway.
FAQs
Yes. i say… i didn’t and no one cried. cornstarch plus all-purpose works. mostly.
Of course. buttercream, cream cheese, jam and powdered sugar stirred with a fork—whatever makes the day easier. mine slumped and still got eaten.
depends on your ghosts. it’s sweet, yeah. but not cloying. the vanilla carries it. unless you dump extra frosting on like mae did,then, yeah.
I did. accidentally. forgot it in the fridge and it got denser, but somehow better. like it settled into itself.
Check out More Recipes:
Martha Stewart White Cake Recipe
Description
Soft and slumped, with a hint of chaos and too much memory in the vanilla.
Ingredients
Frosting (sort of Martha’s, sort of not):
Instructions
- Make the batter: butter went in first. soft enough to press a finger into. creamed it with sugar until it looked pale and forgiving. added vanilla—used the paste, not extract. it felt thicker, like it knew more. mixed the flour, baking powder, salt in a bowl i found behind the peaches. added it in parts, switching off with the milk. i didn’t alternate like she said. just dumped and stirred. no regrets.
- Prep the pans and bake: greased two round pans with cold butter. forgot to flour one, so i whispered a prayer. poured the batter in. tapped the pans on the counter like nan used to—she said it got rid of air bubbles. probably superstition. baked at 350°F for about 32 minutes. they domed a little, cracked slightly. perfect, in their own lopsided way.
- Cool the cakes: left them in the pans too long. got distracted—burnt toast again. when i turned back, the kitchen smelled like sugar and old linen. ran a knife around the edges and turned them out onto racks. one stuck. patched it with frosting later.
- Make the frosting: set up a double boiler with a bowl that wobbles. egg whites and sugar went in. whisked until hot enough that i doubted myself. beat it until glossy, added butter one cube at a time. it almost broke, then didn’t. added salt, vanilla. tasted like soft air.
- Frost and finish: stacked the cakes. the layers didn’t match. didn’t care. covered it with frosting like snowdrifts. uneven, sweet, exactly enough. mae swiped a spoonful when i turned around. i let her.