It smelled like something I remembered. but couldn’t name.
The orange hit the pot first—zest and juice, sharp and sweet—and then came the rest. Cinnamon. Clove. That low, earthy scent of cardamom I only use when something hurts.
It was raining sideways. one of those coastal Maine tantrums.
Mae was gone for the weekend. I didn’t have dinner plans. Didn’t need them. Just needed the sound of the stove and something hot that didn’t ask much from me.
I wasn’t trying to entertain.
I was trying not to disappear.
What Martha’s Version Looks Like
Her Highness keeps it simple. Of course she does. One bottle of fruity red wine—nothing too proud. A half cup of sugar. A quarter cup of brandy. That part made me pause.
She builds it with whole spices like a perfume. Cardamom, clove, allspice, black peppercorns, cinnamon. Plus orange juice and zest—both. Always both.
She says to simmer it slow, strain it clean, and garnish with a stick of cinnamon like you’re at a chalet, not a drafty New England kitchen with a flickering overhead bulb.
It’s elegant. But it can handle being messy. That’s why I liked it.
The Bit I Got Wrong (And Didn’t Regret)
I didn’t strain it. Just poured around the clove bombs and let the grit stay at the bottom of the mug.
Didn’t use a full ½ cup sugar either. maybe closer to ⅓. it was enough.
Also added a splash more brandy than I should’ve.
Didn’t measure. just… poured.
The Way It Happened in My Kitchen
The wine went in with a sigh. not mine—the bottle’s. or maybe both.
I bruised the cardamom like I meant it. dropped it in with the orange juice, the sugar, the cinnamon, the strange quiet that comes when you’re not expecting company.
The first steam smelled like winter. and like the Christmas before the divorce—when I still used the good mugs. before Mae broke one and I said it was okay, but I didn’t mean it.
I stirred once. then forgot. let it simmer too long. didn’t matter.
Drank it by the window. watched the wind pull the birch branches sideways. Thought about someone I used to love who hated warm drinks.
Then I had another cup.
A Few Things I Learned
Clove overpowers fast. don’t go rogue.
This is not a party drink. It’s a solitude drink.
Reheats beautifully the next day. Even better cold, weirdly.
Don’t skip the orange. It’s the one thing that forgives you.
What I Did With the Extras
Poured it back into the bottle. strained it lazily.
Drank a mug with toast the next morning.
Mae texted later that day: “Why does the kitchen smell like cookies and wine?”
I didn’t answer.
Would I Make It Again?
Yes. probably every time the sky looks like this.
FAQs
Yep. Just Skip It. Or Add Orange Liqueur If That’S Your Style.
Not If You Start Low. Add Sugar Slowly. Sip And Trust Yourself.
Yes. But Do It Gently. Like You’Re Warming Up Something You Care About.
Something Red, Fruity, And Under $15. Bold But Not Arrogant.
Yeah. But Also Like Memory. And Maybe A Little Like Forgiveness.
Check out More Recipes:
Martha Stewart Mulled Wine
Description
Warm, Spiced, And Just Sweet Enough To Make You Sit Down For A Second.
Ingredients
Instructions
- Prepare the Orange: Zest one large orange (I used the old microplane with the chipped handle). Juice it and keep both nearby.
- Wake Up the Spices: Bruise 2 cardamom pods with the flat of a knife—don’t crush, just crack. Let them open up.
- Build the Base: In a big pot, add the zest, juice, cardamom, 6 whole cloves, 6 allspice berries, 6 black peppercorns, 1 cinnamon stick, 1 bottle of fruity red wine (nothing fancy), ⅓ to ½ cup sugar (your call), and ¼ cup brandy. Or a little more. I won’t tell.
- Simmer Gently: Warm it over medium until the sugar melts—just a minute or two. Then drop it to low and let it murmur for 30 minutes. Don’t let it boil. Let it think.
- Serve and Sigh: Strain if you want. I didn’t. Pour into a heavy mug. Add a cinnamon stick if you feel like dressing up for no one.