It was raining. not dramatic rain—just that Maine mist that wets your hair and makes the dog smell like laundry left too long in the washer. Mae was gone for the weekend, and the house had that weird hollow to it, like it had already decided it wouldn’t be warm again until Monday. I wasn’t planning to cook. I was planning to sit in silence and let the weather rot the bananas. But then I opened the fridge and found a carton of cream I’d forgotten I bought and a heel of bread as thick as a paperback. And Her Highness’s French Toast flickered into my mind like static from a radio I didn’t remember turning on.
What the Original Recipe Looked Like
Martha’s version is, of course, orderly. Six thick slices, custard as precise as a ballet slipper: eggs, cream, vanilla, nutmeg, cinnamon, salt. She soaks the bread long enough to baptize it. Fry in a butter-oil combo so it browns but doesn’t weep. Wire rack. Warm oven. No chaos, no crumbs. It’s a cathedral of toast, not breakfast.
I remember the picture from one of her old magazines—page creased, syrup pooling like staged drama. She never burns it. She never feels like she would. That’s the difference.
What I Did Differently
I used milk, not cream—because I didn’t want the heaviness. And I didn’t wait the full twenty minutes for the bread to soak. I flipped, I guessed, I pressed it down a little like it owed me something. Used challah, because that’s what was left from Mae’s attempt at sandwiches earlier in the week. I added more cinnamon than she’d like. Enough to cover the cinnamon mistake I still taste when I smell it. My ex. Spaghetti. Don’t ask.
The Way It Happened in My Kitchen
Whisked the eggs too fast, got a splash on the green Pyrex I’ve had since college. That bowl’s seen more panic than comfort food. Bread in. Milk everywhere. I stepped on a piece and just left it on the floor until after the second batch.
Butter in the skillet smelled like December. Not this one. The one before the divorce. Vanilla makes everything quieter somehow—like a hush falls in the kitchen just for a second when it hits hot fat. I think that’s why I keep using it even when I don’t need to. Even when I know it’s too much.
The first slice burned. Of course it did. Every time I burn toast, I remember the days I didn’t have a reason to feel off, but still did. Burnt toast is a signal. Not a mistake.
I flipped the rest earlier. They came out mottled, not golden. Soft middles, crisp edges. Not perfect. Better.
A Few Things I Learned
You don’t need as much oil as she says. But maybe that’s just me.
The silence after the last flip is the best part. Like the pan is exhaling.
Also—don’t answer old texts mid-cook. The toast can smell the distraction.
What I Did With the Extras
Ate one cold, over the sink. It tasted like compromise, but in a good way.
Wrapped one in foil and left it on the counter. Mae came home and said, “You cooked?” and I said, “Kind of.”
She ate it anyway. Syrup straight from the bottle.
Would I Make It Again?
Yes. If the rain’s soft and the house is quiet and something needs burning.
That’s As Much As I Remember
The window stopped fogging when the last piece came out of the oven. I stood barefoot on the tile too long. The toast cooled before I finished eating. That felt right.
If soft food’s your thing, I did a cheesy potato mess last week you might like. warmer. saltier. less emotional—but just barely.
FAQs
Yeah, but it’ll fall apart if you soak too long. do a quick dunk and cook it fast. think: soggy love letter.
Only if you want that quiet ache in the kitchen. otherwise skip it. the cinnamon’s loud enough on its own.
Both. edges should talk back. middle should melt. if it’s all crisp, it’s toast. if it’s all soft, it’s memory.
Sort of. cook it, cool it, reheat in a hot oven. it’ll taste like someone tried—and that’s enough.
Then you’re me. scrape it, stack it, drown it in syrup. it still counts. especially on bad days.
Check out More Recipes
- Martha Stewart French Onion Soup
- Martha Stewart Banana Pudding
- Martha Stewart Chicken Pot Pie
- Martha Stewart Chicken Soup
Martha Stewart French Toast
Description
Creamy, cinnamon-heavy, and just a little burnt. like me, that day.
Ingredients
Instructions
- Soak the Bread Crack four eggs into a bowl that feels familiar. Mine was green Pyrex, chipped on the rim. Add the milk, the vanilla, too much cinnamon. Whisk like you’re trying to forget something. Soak the bread—both sides. Press it down. Let it breathe. Let it remember.
- Heat the Skillet Butter first, then oil. Or both at once. Let them melt until they hiss but don’t scream. Medium heat. Not high. Not today. That kind of heat ruins things.
- Fry Until the Mood Shifts Lay the soaked bread down like an offering. Listen. Flip when it smells like warmth and your hands start to steady. Don’t rush. Or do. I burned the first one. Always do.
- Finish and Fade Keep the toast warm in the oven if you’re feeling generous. Or eat it off the spatula. I did both. Mae came home mid-batch. I didn’t tell her I cried over the second piece. She asked if there was syrup. I said yes. There always is.