It smelled like late October, even though it wasn’t. The kind of fake fall you get in coastal Maine when the wind teases you into sweaters too soon and the sun forgets it’s not July anymore. Mae had left a half mug of chai on the counter and I drank it without asking. That’s when I saw the recipe again—Martha’s Pumpkin Squares—folded into the back of my old cooking binder, just above a splatter from the lemon cake collapse.
I wasn’t planning to bake. But there was silence. And silence does strange things to me.
What the Original Looked Like
Her Highness keeps it clean. Butter creamed into sugar until it sighs. A soft orange batter, spiced in that just-right Martha ratio—nutmeg whisper, cinnamon shout, cloves barely there. She tells you to use room temperature everything, and I did. Mostly. The squares bake golden. The frosting is cream cheese with no apologies. It’s not supposed to crack. It’s not supposed to make you cry.
But I’m not Martha. I’m Nell. And that’s the whole problem, isn’t it.
What I Did Differently
I didn’t sift. I never do. The sugar went in with a prayer and a pinch of salt that might’ve been too aggressive. I also forgot to bring the milk to room temp—poured it in cold from the fridge and stirred before I could second-guess it.
And the frosting. Oh god, the frosting. I added lemon. Just a flick of juice. Not because it needed it—because I needed it to need something.
The Way It Happened in My Kitchen
The butter was too soft. Like a secret. I beat it with sugar until it looked like something I trusted, then ruined it with impatience. Mae asked me if allspice was “actually spicy” and I said no. She didn’t believe me. The cinnamon cloud made her sneeze. I kept stirring.
I used the green Pyrex bowl, the one I’ve had since college—the one that doesn’t sit flat anymore. The batter leaned. So did I.
When I poured it into the pan (lined, barely), it smelled like my dad’s hands after smashing garlic—warm, sharp, gone too soon.
And when the cake came out, it looked like a memory. Golden. Fragile. Slightly uneven at the edges.
I let it cool while staring out the kitchen window, where the wind was shaking the old maple like it wanted to start over.
A Few Things I Learned
If the frosting looks too smooth, it probably is. And that lemon? It didn’t make it better. But it made it mine.
Pumpkin smells like the start of something, even when you’re ending something else.
And silence in the kitchen is never really silence.
What I Did With the Extras
I ate one square cold, standing by the sink. Mae took two in a ziplock and didn’t say thank you, but she smiled the way she used to when she was small and everything sweet was magic.
There are still three left. I might forget them. Or not.
Would I Make It Again?
Yes. But probably for the frosting. Or the silence.
That’s As Much As I Remember
The sun dipped behind the neighbor’s roof just as I scraped the bowl. Everything felt soft and orange and a little unfinished.
If you want something warmer, I did a version of Her Highness’s spice cake last fall that nearly took out the stand mixer. Still worth it.
FAQs
Yeah, Technically. But The Frosting Gets Weird. Not Bad, Just… Soft In A Way That Feels A Little Sad. Better To Keep Them In The Fridge And Eat Cold At Midnight Like A Secret.
Totally Fine. Use What You’Ve Got. I Once Made It With Just Cinnamon And Nutmeg And Nobody Complained—Except Mae, But She’S Picky About Cloves.
Sure, But Roast It Well And Drain It Completely. I Tried Fresh Once And The Batter Came Out Like Soup. Still Tasted Good, Just Flatter. Like My Mood That Day.
Not Aggressively. It’S More Creamy Than Sugary, Especially If You Sneak In That Bit Of Lemon Like I Did. Balances Things Out.
You Can… But Should You? Probably Not. That Frosting Holds Emotional Weight. Even If It Cracks A Little.
Check out More Recipes:
Martha Stewart Pumpkin Squares
Description
Soft, Spiced, And Iced With Something That Made Me Cry—But Only For A Minute.
Ingredients
For the frosting:
Instructions
- Preheat oven & prepare pan:Preheat oven to 180°C (350°F). Grease an 8×12-inch (20×30 cm) cake pan with butter. Line the bottom with parchment, leave a 5cm (2-inch) overhang on two sides. I forgot the overhang the first time—don’t do that. Grease the paper too, even if it feels like overkill.
- Mix dry ingredients:In a bowl that smells like nutmeg memories, whisk together flour, cinnamon, nutmeg (mine was old), allspice, ground cloves, salt, baking powder, and baking soda. Set aside, but close enough to reach when things start to feel rushed.
- Combine pumpkin & milk:In another bowl, whisk the pumpkin purée with milk. The can hissed when I opened it. I didn’t warm the milk. I never do.
- Cream butter & sugar:In your largest bowl—the one with the dented side you still trust—beat the butter and sugar together with an electric mixer until light and fluffy, about 2 minutes. It should look like something you want to fall into.
- Add eggs & combine:Add eggs, one at a time. Let each one disappear before the next arrives. Like thoughts you’re not ready to hold all at once.
- Incorporate dry & wet ingredients:Turn the mixer to low. Add the flour mixture in three batches, alternating with the pumpkin mix in two. Start and end with flour. Don’t panic when it looks wrong at first. It evens out. It always does.
- Bake the cake:Pour the batter into the pan and smooth it like a sigh. Bake about 35 minutes—until the top is golden and the center doesn’t argue back. The kitchen will smell like the version of you that still wrote holiday cards. Let cool completely on a wire rack you forgot you had.
- Prepare the frosting:In a clean bowl (emotionally or otherwise), beat cream cheese, butter, and salt until creamy. Two minutes or so. Add sifted powdered sugar slowly—I didn’t sift, and I won’t lie, it clumped. I also added a flick of lemon juice. For balance. For memory.
- Assemble & serve:Lift the cooled cake from the pan. Frost it like you mean it, with an offset spatula or the back of a spoon if that’s all you can find. Cut into 12 bars. Eat one warm. Maybe cry a little. It’s fine.