I Tried Martha Stewart’s Pie Crust, and It Brought Back More Than I Wanted

The flour was already on the counter.
I don’t remember putting it there.
It was raining hard enough that the windows steamed. The dog wouldn’t stop pacing. And Mae had texted “Do you still make that crust that fights you?”
Which felt like a dare. Or a memory. Or both.

I opened Martha’s book like I was opening a box I shouldn’t touch.
The pie crust was right there—marked with a paperclip that used to hold a photo of my grandmother.

So I started.

What the Original Looked Like

Her Highness’s pie crust isn’t loud. It’s not trendy.
It’s butter-heavy. Cold. Simple. Dignified. Like everything she touches.
Flour, salt, sugar. Then ice water, whispered in. Just enough to hold things together, but never too much. That’s the rule.

The butter stays visible. That’s the trick. It’s not meant to disappear—it’s meant to layer.
She tells you to chill it, roll it, fold it under like it’s nothing. Like it won’t crumble in your hands if you think too hard.

What I Did Differently (And Why I Knew I Would)

I didn’t use a pastry cutter. I never do.
I use two knives like she did. Not Martha—my grandmother.
Her crusts were dry. Crumbly. A little bitter, if I’m honest.
But she always smiled like they were perfect.

I added a little more salt than called for. Because I was mad.
Used the cheap butter, too. Because it was what I had.
And I didn’t chill it long enough. Because I was tired of waiting.

The Way It Happened in My Kitchen

I cut the butter into the flour with the old knives—the ones with black handles and dents in the blade.
The mixture didn’t look right. Too powdery. I added a splash of water. Then another.
The dough barely came together. I pressed it anyway.

Wrapped it in plastic. Threw it in the fridge.
Paced for an hour. Forgot about it. Came back when the room smelled like cold.

I rolled it out on the old wooden board—the one with the scorch mark in the corner from that candle incident.
It cracked on the edges. I patched it. It tore in the middle. I patched that too.

Laid it into the buttered tin like I was laying down a blanket.
One with holes. One with history.

I folded the edges under, like Martha said. Like Nan used to.
It looked better than I expected.
But it still felt like grief.

Why I’ll Never Follow This Recipe Without Remembering Her

She never used sugar in the crust. Said it was “for cheaters.”
Martha does. I like it. I don’t tell her that.

Every time I roll dough, I hear her laugh.
The sharp one. The one she saved for when things didn’t work, but she made them anyway.

A Few Things I Learned

Pie dough doesn’t forgive your mood. It mirrors it.
Too much handling = a fight.
Too little = it falls apart when no one’s looking.

It held together this time.
Just barely.
Like me.

What I Did With the Extras

Scraps went in the freezer. I said I’d make hand pies.
I won’t.

Would I Make It Again?

Yes.
When I need to feel her hands beside mine.
Even if I flinch when I do.

If you want something that forgives more easily, I made Martha’s chocolate chip cookies last week—no ghosts, just butter and sugar and Mae licking the spoon.

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• Martha Stewart Turkey Burger​
• Martha Stewart Turkey Meatballs​
• Martha Stewart Turkey Chili​
• Martha Stewart Chocolate Chip Cookies​