The kitchen was already hot. not from cooking—from tension.
A letter I didn’t open.
A drawer I slammed too hard.
And somehow, cocoa powder ended up on the dog.
I wasn’t planning on baking. I wasn’t planning on anything.
But there it was—Martha Stewart’s chocolate cake, printed and stained, folded behind the takeout menus.
Her Highness, with her hot water trick and buttermilk calm.
I needed a distraction I could pour into pans.
I needed heat that made sense.
What the Original Looked Like
Her Highness builds it like a structure. measured. sifted. balanced.
Cocoa powder, 1½ cups of it, gets treated like royalty—sifted first, given a dusting role too. She folds in eggs (lightly beaten, of course), buttermilk, oil, then brings in hot water like a dramatic entrance. You get two pans, lined and buttered like a ceremony, and she tells you to rotate them mid-bake like you’ve got nothing else to do.
It’s the kind of cake that says I have control.
I didn’t.
What I Did Differently
Didn’t rotate the pans.
Didn’t beat the eggs.
Didn’t have real buttermilk—used yogurt and a grudge.
Her Highness calls for sugar—three cups. I used less. Or maybe I spilled some. I don’t know. Mae said it was sweet enough. She only ate the crumbs from the knife, though.
Oh—and I used the dented Dutch oven to mix the batter.
Not because it was smart. Because it was clean.
And because I wanted to hear the spoon hit the metal again.
The Way It Happened in My Kitchen
Flour clouded the room like bad news. I was barefoot, and the floor was sticky. Probably from last night’s wine. Or Mae’s juice. Or both.
I whisked with one hand and opened the envelope with the other. Didn’t read it. Just saw the signature. His.
Back to the batter—oil, thick and slow.
The cocoa smelled like old birthdays.
Not mine. My grandmother’s. Her dry cake and her tighter smile.
I thought of her and dumped in more vanilla than needed. The good stuff. The kind that always reminds me of Christmas before the split.
The hot water scared me. it always does.
Feels too aggressive for a cake.
I poured and stirred anyway. It hissed a little in the bowl—
or maybe that was me.
Into the pans. No parchment. Just butter and hope.
And then the house smelled like… something I didn’t want to name.
A Few Things I Learned
If you open mail while baking, your cake might come out uneven.
If you forget the cocoa dusting, the pans still let go—if you ask nicely.
And if you use the good vanilla, even grief gets soft at the edges.
What I Did With the Extras
Mae cut a square before it cooled. Said it tasted like “a brownie with ambition.”
I ate mine with a spoon.
Standing over the sink.
A little frosting. A little silence.
Would I Make It Again?
When the oven’s already hot and I need to hit something with a whisk—yeah.
Probably.
That’s As Much As I Remember
The envelope’s still on the counter.
The cake’s gone.
The pan still smells like sugar and something old.
FAQs
Yeah. but it loses something. texture, maybe. or the smell. still edible. just not emotional.
Nope. I used yogurt and spite. worked fine. just keep it tangy.
Depends how much sugar ends up in the bowl. mine was less than Martha’s, but mae still called it “a lot.”
Whatever was in the fridge. I think it was a half-tub of chocolate something and a spoonful of cream cheese. I didn’t ask questions.
You can. just watch the middle—it takes longer. I forgot once and the top cracked like a bad day. still tasted like memory.
Check out More Recipes
- Martha Stewart Fudgy Brownies
- Martha Stewart Butternut Squash Soup
- Martha Stewart Chicken And Dumplings
- Martha Stewart Chicken Salad
Martha Stewart Chocolate Cake
Description
Creamy and chaotic. A cake made out of noise.
Ingredients
Instructions
- Preheat the oven to 350°F and try not to overthink your life while you wait. Butter two pans like you mean it—skip the parchment if you feel brave.
- Sift the dry ingredients into something big. I used the Dutch oven because it was clean and familiar. Flour, cocoa, salt, baking soda, baking powder, sugar—dump and stir like you’ve got something to prove.
- Add the wet stuff—oil first, then yogurt (or real buttermilk if you’re one of those people), vanilla, eggs, then the hot water. Slowly. it’ll look wrong. it isn’t.
- Stir until smooth or until your arm gets tired. Taste if you need to believe in it. I always do.
- Pour into pans and pretend you’re even about it. You won’t be. Doesn’t matter.
- Bake until done—45 to 55 minutes, or until the smell stops you mid-thought. Don’t forget to rotate them if you’re a rule-follower. I didn’t. Still worked.
- Cool the cakes in the pans for 20 minutes, then flip them out and let them sit bare on the racks like truth you weren’t ready for.
- Frost with whatever you’ve got. I used a butter knife and my last nerve. Still good. Still cake.