It started with the smell of cloves in the drawer. I wasn’t looking for them. I’d opened it for tape or twine or something else useless, and there they were—still in the tin from the co-op on Route 1, the one we stopped at that fall Mae insisted on wearing tights in July. The tin still smells like her breath after cider.
I hadn’t planned on breakfast. It was one of those grey-socked mornings where toast felt like too much work. But the radiator was clanking and the house had that hollow cold that makes you want to heat the stove just to feel alive again. So. Her Highness’s pumpkin pancakes it was. Or something close.
What the Original Looked Like
Martha’s version is the usual balance of earnest and showy—nutmeg you grate fresh (of course), milk warmed just enough, a pinch of ground cloves like a knowing wink. It finishes glossy and polite, with neat stacks and maple syrup that drips just so. She keeps the sugar light, the spice tidy, the batter obedient.
It’s what you imagine breakfast looks like in a magazine left at a B&B you can’t afford.
What I Did Differently
I used canned pumpkin that had been open two days. Covered it with foil, forgot about it. Still orange, still smelled right. I used oat milk. Not for health—just because the regular stuff had turned and I didn’t feel like scraping curds off the top again. The butter went in cold. It didn’t melt right. I didn’t care.
I doubled the cinnamon. Probably tripled it. I didn’t measure. I needed it to smell like something was baking even if it wasn’t.
The Way It Happened in My Kitchen
I used the green Pyrex bowl, the one from college that I thought I lost in the move but found wedged behind the paint cans last spring. It’s chipped now. But it holds batter like it remembers how to.
Whisked the flour and spices together and immediately forgot if I’d added salt. Did it again. Maybe too much. Mae used to watch me do that and laugh—“you know it’s not a spell, right?” she’d say. But maybe it is. A bit of this, a scoop of that, hope it rises.
The egg cracked weird. Split sideways. I thought of that lemon cake collapse. The smell of sugar and effort and failure. I almost stopped there.
Poured the batter. It was thick. Like it didn’t want to spread unless I asked nice. First one burned. Second one too pale. Third was right. Isn’t that always the way?
A Few Things I Learned
Letting the batter sit made it thicker, slower, more sure of itself. The way good things usually are. And burnt edges taste like toast on bad days, but in a good way.
What I Did With the Extras
Stacked them on a plate I didn’t eat from. Ate two over the sink. One cold, one with too much butter. Wrapped the rest in foil, forgot them in the oven after I turned it off. Found them again at noon. Still good.
Would I Make It Again?
If the house smells empty. If the drawer reminds me. If Mae texts.
That’s As Much As I Remember
The clove tin is still open. The radiator’s still clanking. The last pancake I ate was warm enough to quiet things.
If soft things speak to you, I did a cheesy potato mess last week you might like. not fancy. just enough.
FAQs
yes. that’s what i did. if it’s been open a day or two and still smells okay, even better. weirdly richer.
nope. cinnamon’s the backbone—use that. the rest? trust your cupboard and your mood. cloves make it smell like late october. nutmeg… skip it if it gives you weird flashbacks.
kind of. it thickens in the fridge. stir in a splash of milk in the morning and pretend you meant to do it that way.
yeah, but only if you’re okay with them going a little rubbery on the reheat. better toasted than microwaved. and still better than no pancakes at all.
not really. it’s like preamble-sweet. you need the syrup. or butter with a little brown sugar mixed in. or whipped cream if you’re healing something invisible.
Martha Stewart Pumpkin Pancakes
Description
Made these to fight the cold. Ate them to remember warmth.
Ingredients
Instructions
- Scoop the flour into a wide bowl. not the metal one—it echoes too much in the mornings. whisk in the baking powder, salt, sugar, cinnamon, ginger, nutmeg, cloves. smell it. trust your nose more than your memory.
- In another bowl—use something with a lip—whisk the pumpkin with the milk. add the egg. the butter too, if you remember to melt it. i didn’t. it still worked.
- Combine wet into dry like you’re folding in forgiveness. not too much stirring. not too little. just until the batter looks like something that might settle if left alone.
- Let it sit. a few minutes. enough time to breathe or curse or check if the maple syrup isn’t crystalized in the back of the fridge.
- Heat your pan. cast iron if you can handle its moods. add butter. not a lot. but enough to feel like you’re trying.
- Pour the batter in small puddles. let them bubble. edges should look like they’ve made up their mind. flip with confidence you didn’t earn. cook the second side shorter. stack them like you’re building something worth remembering.
- Serve with more butter. real syrup. and quiet, if you can get it.
- Eat one before anyone else walks in. that one’s yours. always.