The fog had already rolled in by noon. The kind that makes your windows look like secrets and your bones ache like you forgot something important. I wasn’t planning on soup. I wasn’t planning on anything. But I reached for the Dutch oven anyway—the one with the dent from the night I left him. It still sits crooked on the burner. Still hums when it gets warm.
Her Highness calls it Cream of Mushroom Soup. I hadn’t made it since Mae was small and afraid of anything with “fungus” in the name. Now she texts me photos of ramen and thinks she’s clever. Time moves sideways in this house.
The mushrooms were starting to wilt in the fridge drawer. The cremini looked resigned. The shiitakes had gone papery around the edges. I don’t even remember buying the oysters. But there they were—soft and strange and needed.
What the Original Looked Like
Martha’s version is… elegant. Predictable in the way a pressed napkin is. Onion softened in butter. Flour whisked for body. Chicken stock like a polite whisper. Then thyme, parsley, a bay leaf (of course). She cooks the mushrooms in batches—first the cremini, then the others—as if they’d misbehave if left alone together. The final step is eggs and cream, warmed gently like a lullaby. It’s a careful soup. The kind you serve when people are watching.
What I Did Differently
I didn’t separate the mushrooms. They all went in at once because I was too tired to do otherwise. I used dried thyme, maybe too much, maybe not enough—I honestly don’t know. I didn’t strain the stock. I didn’t want to lose anything. Also, the bay leaf stuck to the spoon and I decided that was a sign to leave it be.
And I used the good cream. The one I save for desserts or days I think I’ll cry.
The Way It Happened in My Kitchen
The onions went in first. They always do. That scent—half sweet, half surrender—filled the room like an old record playing too quietly. I stirred until they looked translucent and a little tired. Then flour. Then regret. I was supposed to call someone back. I didn’t.
The stock hit the pot with a hiss. I didn’t stir fast enough and it clumped for a second. I cursed softly. Mae would’ve laughed.
When the mushrooms went in, everything smelled like Provincetown. Not the beach, but the little bookstore where we bought smoked salt and postcards we never sent. He was with me then. I was someone else.
I forgot to temper the yolks properly. I stirred them in too fast. It thickened anyway. Or maybe it curdled a little. I couldn’t tell. I didn’t care. It tasted… real. Like something that had waited in silence for a day like this.
I tapped the spoon against the pot three times. Don’t ask why. I just do.
A Few Things I Learned
The mushrooms don’t need to be perfect. They just need to be enough.
Straining isn’t always cleansing. Sometimes it erases what matters.
You can curdle something and still call it dinner.
You can break something and it still holds warmth.
What I Did With the Extras
Poured it into an old yogurt tub. The lid barely fit. I forgot it was in the fridge until Mae came over three days later and asked what “the gray thing” was. She tasted it cold and said, “This is weirdly good.” Then finished it standing up.
Would I Make It Again?
Yes. But not for a party. For myself. For the fog. For the days that hang heavy.
That’s As Much As I Remember
The windows cleared by dinner. The pot was still warm.
I scraped the bottom with my spoon and let it go quiet again.
FAQs
Yeah, But It Gets A Little Grainy When It Thaws. I Froze A Jar Last Winter And Forgot About It—Still Ate It Over The Sink. Not Proud. Still Good.
Yes—But Not In A Heavy Way. It Clings To The Spoon, Not Your Stomach. The Egg Yolks Soften It, Not Weigh It Down. Like A Hug With Boundaries.
No. Use What You’Ve Got. I’Ve Done It With Just Cremini When The Others Were Mia. Still Worked. Still Tasted Like Someone Meant It.
Then It’S A Different Soup, But That’S Okay. Skip Them And Just Stir In The Cream. It Won’T Be As Velvety, But It Won’T Complain.
Totally. Just Swap The Chicken Stock For A Good Veggie One—Homemade If You’Re Ambitious, Store-Bought If You’Re Human. Maybe Throw In A Dried Porcini Or Two For Depth.
Check out More Recipes:
Martha Stewart Cream Of Mushroom Soup
Description
Soft, Thick, And Memory-Heavy. Made It When The House Felt Like Fog.
Ingredients
Instructions
- Soften the onions: In the dented Dutch oven, melt 4 tbsp (60g) of butter over medium heat. Add the minced onion and let it cook until translucent and quiet, about 5 minutes. Stir like you mean it—but not too much.
- Add the flour:Sprinkle in 6 tablespoons of flour. Lower the heat and stir, slow and steady, for 4 minutes. Don’t let it brown. Don’t let your mind wander. (I did. It still worked.)
- Pour in the stock: Gradually add 12 cups of chicken stock, whisking as you go so the flour melts into it without a fight. It’ll look a little off at first—keep going. It evens out. Most things do.
- Add the herbs and simmer: Drop in 2 sprigs of parsley, 1 bay leaf, and a pinch of dried thyme. Let it all simmer together for about 20 minutes. The kitchen should smell like memory by now. Strain it when the timer goes off—if you set one. I didn’t. Just watched the light change through the window.
- Cook the mushrooms (all at once): In a wide skillet or whatever’s clean, melt the remaining 4 tbsp (60g) of butter over medium heat. Toss in the full 3 lbs of mushrooms—cremini, shiitake, oyster, whatever mix you’ve got. Season with salt and the juice of half a lemon. Let them cook down for 10-ish minutes, until they’ve given up their water and turned golden. Stir when you remember.
- Warm the stock, whisk the cream: Bring the strained broth back to a gentle simmer. In a bowl, whisk together 4 egg yolks and 1 cup of heavy cream. Try not to get distracted here—I knocked over a spoon and forgot what I was doing for a second.
- Temper the yolks carefully: Ladle 1 cup of hot soup into the cream mixture slowly, whisking the whole time so it doesn’t scramble. Then, still whisking, pour it all back into the pot. Keep the heat low. Stay calm. It’ll thicken gently. Don’t rush it.
- Combine and finish: Stir the golden mushrooms into the creamy broth. Taste. Add salt if it needs it. Maybe a bit more lemon. Maybe nothing. Serve hot, with fresh parsley if you remember to chop it. I didn’t. It didn’t matter.