I thought it was going to be silly.
A cake shaped like a lamb? Come on. I only pulled out the mold because Mae found it in the attic and said, “You used to make this when I was little, right?” I didn’t. She’s probably thinking of someone else. Or maybe I just never let her remember me soft like that.
But the second I touched the mold—cold and dented, dust still clinging to the hinge—I remembered the Easter my mother made it, placed it in the center of the table like a dare. No one cut into it for an hour. We just stared at it. Like it might get up and run.
I didn’t know I needed to make this.
I didn’t know I still wanted to be the kind of person who’d grease the ears of a cake.
What the Original Looked Like
Martha’s lamb cake is pure control.
The batter’s a white sponge—fluffy from whipped egg whites, anchored by real vanilla and cake flour. You fill only one side of the lamb mold (the face side, of course), press it shut, then bake the thing for a full hour. It’s sculptural. It’s ceremonial. It’s a cake you commit to.
She says to oil and flour the mold in every crevice, to cool it just right, to treat it like a fragile thing made strong. And when you finally stand it up on the plate—after cooling, after fear, after patience—it becomes something more than dessert.
It becomes a memory you can frost.
What I Did Differently
I didn’t have cake flour. I used all-purpose and whispered a sorry.
I added a splash more vanilla than she said—because I always do.
And I didn’t tie the mold shut. I didn’t have twine. I wrapped it in foil like a patch job and said a small prayer to Her Highness.
The lamb cracked along the ear. I loved it more for that.
The Way It Happened in My Kitchen
I greased the mold with my fingers. Got the oil under my nails.
Floured it like it mattered.
Then the flour cloud hit and I remembered the first time Mae tried to bake on her own. The kitchen was white with powdered sugar and panic. That lemon cake never stood a chance. But we ate it anyway, off the rack, off the floor.
Back to the batter—soft butter, sugar, milk.
Whipped the egg whites too long. Forgot to check. Didn’t care.
Poured the batter into the face half and tapped the air pockets out with the back of a wooden spoon. Thought about my ex. The way he always cut the head off first. Said it was “the logical place to start.”
I sealed the mold and didn’t look back.
One hour later, it smelled like warm sugar and unfinished prayers.
I didn’t frost it. Just dusted it with powdered sugar and stood it up like it had something to say.
A Few Things I Learned
Some cakes are more than cakes.
You don’t need perfection to make something stand.
And a cracked ear is still an ear.
Why I Used All-Purpose Instead of Cake Flour
I didn’t have cake flour. Didn’t feel like driving.
All-purpose worked fine—maybe a little less delicate, a little more dense.
Like most of the women in my family. Not a bad trade.
FAQs
Yeah, You Do. Otherwise It’S Just Cake. The Mold Is The Whole Mood.
Totally. That’S What I Used. It Comes Out A Bit Sturdier, But Still Sweet And Soft.
A Little. But If You Grease It Like You Mean It, And Wait The Full Cooling Time, You’Ll Be Fine. And If It Cracks? You Just Sugar Over It.
Of Course. Go Full Buttercream Sheep If You Want. I Kept Mine Bare—It Felt Honest.
A Few Days, Covered. I Had A Slice With Tea The Next Morning And It Was Even Better Somehow.
Check out More Recipes:
Martha Stewart Lamb Cake
Description
Soft, Slightly Cracked, And Still Standing—Like The Rest Of Us.
Ingredients
Instructions
- Prepare the mold : Rubbed vegetable oil into the lamb mold with my fingers—got distracted, let it sit too long. Wiped off the puddles with a paper towel that had butter on it already. Greased again, then floured every crevice like I was afraid of losing the nose. Missed the left ear a little. Too late now.
- Preheat the oven : Set it to 375°F. Forgot I’d left a tray inside. Took it out, dropped it, swore once. Moved on.
- Sift dry ingredients : Sifted the cake flour once, got bored, added the baking powder and salt, sifted again but not thoroughly. Called it good enough.
- Cream butter and sugar :Beat the butter and sugar until it looked like frosting I’d actually want to eat. Thought about Mae’s cake collapsing. Forgot what I was doing for a minute. Kept going.
- Add dry and wet : Added the flour and oat milk in alternating scoops—some too big, some too thin. Stirred each one until it looked like it would forgive me. Vanilla went in last. Poured it slow. Let the smell hit.
- Whip the egg whites : Used the wrong bowl at first—switched to the metal one. Beat until they were stiff, then too stiff. Thought about stopping. Didn’t. Overdid it. Oops.
- Fold in the egg whites : Tried the gentle route for the first third—felt proud. Got impatient and dumped in the rest. Folded like I meant it. Lost a bit of volume. Didn’t cry about it.
- Fill the mold : Spoon into the face side only. Smoothed it down without tapping it—Her Highness would’ve scolded me. Used the back of the spoon to press batter into the ears, just in case.
- Seal the mold : Didn’t find the string. Just clamped the mold shut and whispered a half-prayer. Set the whole thing on a baking sheet that wobbles a little if you touch the corner.
- Bake the cake : Baked for 55 minutes. Didn’t check it. Just waited for the smell to change. When it turned from batter-sweet to almost-toast, I knew.
- Cool the cake : Pulled the mold out, let it sit on the rack in silence. Took the top off carefully—ear stuck anyway. Let the bottom half sit another five minutes while I leaned on the counter and watched the kettle hiss.
- Final cooling : Let it cool completely. Didn’t frost it. Didn’t dress it up. Just stood it up on the plate, cracked tail and all.