I Tried Martha Stewart’s Cornbread, and I Burnt the Edges on Purpose

It smelled like the radiator was trying too hard again. that kind of dry warmth, where the air feels baked before the oven even turns on.
I wasn’t planning on making anything. I’d just scraped the last piece of burnt toast into the sink—again—and Mae had left an open jar of jam on the counter like a dare. the old one, from 2002, with the crooked label. peach.

Her Highness’s cornbread crossed my mind like a ghost—not a craving. more like a sound I forgot I loved. the way batter makes that soft sigh when it hits hot butter. I didn’t even check if I had buttermilk. just decided

What Martha’s Cornbread Looks Like in My Head

I remember the page. not the number, just the way the corners curled.
Martha’s version is polite. one stick of butter, melted—controlled. 1½ cups cornmeal, 1 cup flour, a whisper of sugar (well, six tablespoons, but she makes it feel like a whisper). eggs, of course. buttermilk. the oven at 400°F, like always. the pan? buttered just enough.

Her version is gold, structured, sweet-but-not-too. it has edges, but they don’t threaten to burn. the top is smooth. the center lifts, gently.
hers behaves.

What I Did Differently (And Why I’m Not Sorry)

I didn’t have white cornmeal. used yellow.
didn’t level the flour. didn’t care.
my baking soda’s probably older than Mae’s phone—still used it.

and the sugar—I halved it. not because I wanted to. just forgot to add the rest.

and then this happened: I left it in five minutes too long. on purpose.
the top was already set, but the edges—those edges needed to blister a little. it’s a mood thing. I wanted that bitterness to come through.

What Actually Happened in the Kitchen

The butter melted fast. probably too fast.
I whisked it with the eggs like it owed me something. the bowl was my old Pyrex—the green one I’ve had since college.
Mae walked in, sniffed the air, and asked if I was trying to summon ghosts.

“Only the butter kind,” I said.
She didn’t laugh.

I folded the wet into the dry with a wooden spoon that’s lost half its curve. poured the batter like regret into the pan.
The oven groaned. it always does when I’m sure of something.

Fifteen minutes in, it smelled like my grandmother’s kitchen—
but not the warm part. the part where her pie crust cracked in the wrong places and she pretended not to notice.

and I tapped the edge of the pan with my spoon, the way I always do
since the Dutch oven incident.
(don’t ask. I dropped it the night I left him. it still works. I still do.)

What I Noticed While It Baked

The top turned honey-colored first.
the corners? darker. almost bitter.

and that was the best part.

it didn’t need to be soft all over.
it needed contrast. something to break the sweetness.

I let it sit on the stove while the light outside went orange.
Mae stole a corner before I said anything. I didn’t stop her.

What I Did With the Rest

I tore it apart with my hands.
stood over the sink and let the crumbs fall where they wanted.

Mae took the middle. said it was “less aggressive than usual.”
(I think she meant that as a compliment.)

the pan stayed out all night.
next morning, it still smelled like butter and stubbornness.

Would I Make It Again?

yes.
for the burn. for the bite.
for the memory of not needing it—but doing it anyway.

That’s As Much As I Remember

The house was warmer by the time I scraped the last crumb from the pan.
and I didn’t burn the toast the next day.

If soft food’s your thing, I did a cheesy potato mess last week you might like. less attitude. more melt.

FAQs

Check out More Recipes

• Martha Stewart Butternut Squash Soup​
• Martha Stewart Chicken And Dumplings​
• Martha Stewart Chicken Salad
• Martha Stewart Chocolate Cake​