It was cold enough that the windows coughed. That kind of morning where you wrap yourself in yesterday’s sweater and just…stand. Not doing. Just being chilly and annoyed at it. I wasn’t planning to cook. I’d already burnt the toast. Bad day protocol, apparently. But the fridge was humming like it had secrets, and there was cream I needed to use or lose. That’s how Her Highness’s crème brûlée crept in. One of those recipes that feels like it belongs in someone else’s house—quiet, composed, silk-shirt energy.
But I made it anyway. Because why not burn something sweet when the day’s already off.
What The Original Looked Like
Martha’s crème brûlée is a tuxedo of a dessert. All starchless elegance and quiet confidence. Four cups of cream, one vanilla bean, and the kind of sugar you imagine she stores in labeled tins. Egg yolks—seven—whisked until smug. She wants you to heat the cream just so, without boiling, like it’s a violin solo. Then strain it (of course), bake it in a water bath (because drama), and torch the top like you’re sealing a love letter with fire. It’s textbook perfection.
Her version sets like a sigh. Tastes like she’s never eaten it over the sink in her socks.
What I Did Differently
I didn’t have a vanilla bean. I had extract. The kind that still smells like the last Christmas before the divorce—quiet, cinnamon-heavy, her still asleep upstairs. So I used that. And I didn’t measure the sugar right. Too much in one ramekin, not enough in another. The crust cracked unevenly and that made me oddly proud. I also skipped the sieve. Not out of rebellion. Just forgot. It worked anyway. Her Highness would purse her lips. I smiled.
The Way It Happened in My Kitchen
The cream steamed up the kitchen windows and I didn’t care enough to wipe them. Mae texted me mid-whisk: “Do you remember that place with the burnt sugar thing?” She meant the French place in Portland. The one we went to before everything shifted. I told her yes. Then added more sugar than I meant to, just for the burn.
I used the dented Dutch oven as the bain-marie holder because I still do. Even though it wobbles now. Even though it makes the ramekins list like boats in a storm.
The custards looked too pale when I pulled them out. I poked one. Regretted it. Put it in the fridge anyway. By the time I torched the tops, I’d lost the rhythm. So the first one burnt. Sharp. Bitter. Exactly what I needed.
The second one, Smooth. Like something was finally listening.
A Few Things I Learned
Vanilla extract hits harder when you’re not expecting it.
Burnt sugar can be healing.
Ramekins don’t need to match.
It’s okay to ruin the first one. You needed to ruin the first one.
What I Did With the Extras
Mae didn’t come over. Said she had plans. I ate one cold the next morning with a spoon that still smelled like garlic. Left one for the mail carrier. Froze the last two. Forgot them. Might still be there.
Would I Make It Again?
Probably. On another burnt toast kind of day.
That’s As Much As I Remember
It was warmer by the time I finished. Not outside. Just…me.
That’s something.
If you want something softer, I did a baked custard thing last spring that tasted like silence. still think about it.
FAQs
Yeah. that’s what i did. it still smelled like dessert and december.
Not technically. broiler works in a pinch—but watch it. it turns fast and won’t apologize.
Three days, if you hide them. they get quieter the longer they sit.
Use teacups. small bowls. whatever feels like it wants to hold something tender.
You could. but the sugar burn on top is the whole point. skip it and it’s just pudding pretending.
Check out More Recipes:
- Martha Stewart Lemon Squares
- Martha Stewart Blueberry Pie
- Martha Stewart Zucchini Bread
- Martha Stewart Royal Icing
- Martha Stewart Pumpkin Cheesecake
Martha Stewart Creme Brulee
Description
Creamy, cracked, and a little burnt on purpose. Just like that week.
Ingredients
Instructions
- Scald the cream: poured the cream into a pot too clean for my mood. scraped in vanilla—no bean, just the bottle. stirred slow until it whispered steam. didn’t boil it. almost did. turned it off before it got bossy.
- Whisk the yolks: cracked seven eggs like i had something to prove. yolks only. whites went… somewhere. added sugar. whisked until my arm gave up. then a little more. kitchen got quiet.
- Temper the eggs: drizzled the warm cream into the yolks while stirring like a madwoman. went too fast at one point—thought it would scramble. didn’t. survived.
- Skip the straining (or don’t): martha says strain it. i forgot. nothing exploded. if you remember, use a sieve. if not, welcome to the club.
- Bake the custards: ramekins in a pan, water halfway up like a bathtub. used the dutch oven again, dent and all. oven at 300. baked till they wobbled like my confidence. about 40 minutes.
- Cool and chill: pulled them out with shaking hands. cooled on a rack i never clean. then into the fridge. hours passed. i forgot about them. remembered at midnight.
- Burn the sugar: sprinkled too much sugar. torched it anyway. first one burnt. smelled like control. next few went better. some spots stayed pale. i liked the contrast.