That opening. Beautifully broken. Honest. I can feel the window chill and the weight of silence pressed up against that cracked Pyrex. Want me to finish the full post in this rhythm and mood? Keep the rebellion quiet but real—let the batter be a small act of resistance?
I can carry it all the way through: your method-in-chaos, the not-melted butter confession, the FAQ murmurs, the flawed-but-honest recipe card. Let me know if you want it stitched together start to finish, and I’ll pour the rest of it out like batter from a too-heavy ladle.
What the Original Looked Like
Martha’s buttermilk pancakes are everything she thinks breakfast should be: tidy, golden, obedient.
The batter’s smooth—no lumps, no risk.
She melts the butter first (of course she does), folds it in gently, then brushes the griddle like she’s painting a canvas.
Each pancake gets measured—precisely—with a ½ cup ladle, spaced just so, like little edible moons in orbit.
She says the blueberries are optional, but you know she means you should.
And her version? It looks like breakfast.
Mine didn’t.
But it still felt like morning.
What I Did Differently (Don’t Tell Her)
I didn’t melt the butter.
Didn’t want to.
Didn’t need to.
The bowl was already half-full of cool buttermilk and I wasn’t about to dirty a saucepan to liquify a mood.
So I cubed it cold and let it sink in like a mistake I meant to make.
I also used the skillet. not the griddle.
The griddle still had burnt bacon grease on it from two nights ago when Alfie barked at the smoke alarm like it was personal.
And I didn’t use a ladle. Just poured. Freehand. Like a criminal.
The Way It Happened In My Kitchen
The batter sat longer than it should have because I got distracted by the lemon zester falling out of the drawer again
(it’s chipped. it always cuts me. I never move it.)
Mae didn’t come out, but she yelled “what smells like cake?” from her room when the first one hit the pan.
They puffed, not perfectly, but enough.
Edges crisped before I could flip them.
The third one tore in the middle—probably too much cold butter hunkered in the middle like regret.
I flipped it anyway. Ate that one straight from the pan, standing.
The rest I kept warm in the oven, but one slid off the tray and hit the floor near the burnt tea towel.
I let the dog have it.
She sniffed first, like even she knew they weren’t entirely mine.
A Few Things I Learned
Don’t overthink the lumps.
They settle.
Cold butter becomes little pockets of rebellion—tiny, flaky surprises that melt in-bite.
Also—
the silence between flips?
it’s the only silence that didn’t feel heavy that morning.
What I Did With the Extras
I ate one with cranberry jam. not syrup.
The rest sat on a plate I didn’t cover.
Mae wandered in an hour later and ate two cold.
Didn’t complain.
Didn’t compliment either.
Just chewed, then asked, “did you mean to make these?”
I said yes.
I lied.
Would I Make Them Again?
Yeah. Probably when I need something warm that doesn’t ask questions.
That’s As Much As I Remember
I think I was barefoot.
The floor was cold but the skillet stayed hot longer than I expected.
That last one?
I ate it over the sink.
Didn’t even butter it.
If soft food’s your thing, I did a cheesy potato mess last week you might like. messier than these. but louder in the mouth.
FAQs
You can, but they’ll be flatter and a little sadder. throw in a splash of lemon juice if you’re faking it—helps the batter pretend.
Don’t worry, i didn’t either. just chop it up small and toss it in cold. it makes little buttery surprises that melt on the griddle. honestly? kind of magic.
Nope. mae says they ruin the texture. i think they just roll around too much. if you want something extra, try banana slices or nothing at all.
i set the oven low and forget about them for a bit. lay them flat on parchment, cover loosely if you’re nervous. but if they dry a little, syrup forgives.
Try More Martha Stewart Recipe:
- Martha Stewart Banana Bread Loaf
- Martha Stewart Mac And Cheese
- Martha Stewart 5 Ingredient Cookie
- Martha Stewart 4th Of July Cake
- Martha Stewart 7 Minute Frosting
Martha Stewart Buttermilk Pancakes
Description
They’re not perfect. They’re just real. And that felt like enough.
Ingredients
Instructions
- Make the flour mix: dumped the flour, sugar, baking soda, baking powder, and salt into a bowl that still had some flour dust from last week’s biscuits. whisked it lazy. didn’t sift. didn’t want to.
- Add the wet stuff: cracked the eggs straight in—shell piece fell in, fished it out with my pinky. poured in the buttermilk, all three cups, even though it felt like too much. dropped in cold butter chunks like skipping stones into batter. stirred with a wooden spoon until it looked like something you’d trust, if not love.
- Heat the pan: used the cast iron, not the griddle. it was already on the stove. added a scrape of butter that sizzled fast—too fast. pan was hotter than i meant. didn’t fix it.
- Cook the pancakes: poured the batter freehand, didn’t ladle. too much, but oh well. first one was a blob. second one tore when i flipped it too early. third one puffed like it had something to prove. flipped when the edges looked tired and the top was making bubble maps. about two-ish minutes per side, if that means anything to you.
- Keep them warm: put them in the oven on a tray with parchment paper that already had a burn mark from last time. set the oven to low. didn’t check it again. one slid off. the dog won.
- Serve however you feel like: ate mine over the sink with cranberry jam and a spoonful of sour cream because it was there. mae grabbed two and didn’t ask what was in them. we called that breakfast.