The apples were going soft. the fridge made that groaning noise again—the one that always sounds like it’s trying to tell me something. it was too late for cake, too early for toast. and the dog kept circling the counter like he knew something good was about to happen. maybe he did.
I hadn’t planned on baking. not that day. not with the rain dripping like a leaky faucet off the porch. but there was a folded magazine under the flour jar—1997, Her Highness’s apple cake smiling like it had never burned anything in its life.
I sighed. got the big bowl. the one with the crack that whistles if the mix is too thick.
What The Original Recipe Looked Like
Martha’s version is, predictably, a vision. sliced apples layered with the precision of a mason. brown sugar folded into butter like a warm promise. cinnamon, of course. not too much. just enough to make it smell like something expensive. she bakes it in a tube pan—like it’s going to church after. golden top. moist center. you know the type.
I remember seeing it in one of those Thanksgiving issues she did before everything went corporate. back when the pages still felt like secrets passed between women who knew how to fold linens better than they folded marriages.
What I Did Differently
I didn’t peel the apples. I know. she would’ve.
but the peels were thin, and my patience wasn’t.
I used oil instead of butter because the butter was frozen in that back-of-the-fridge way where it’s both frosty and suspect. and I used the cinnamon without sniffing it first. I didn’t want to know if it smelled like my ex’s spaghetti again.
oh—and I didn’t use a tube pan. I used the glass dish with the chip in the corner. it felt more honest.
The Way It Happened in My Kitchen
I mixed with a fork. the wooden spoon was still sticky from the jam Mae made two weeks ago. never got around to cleaning it properly.
the apples sank weird. probably too heavy. or maybe the batter was too thin. I didn’t measure. I just poured until it felt right—like old grief, too much and not enough.
Mae called while it baked. said she was thinking about that lemon cake she tried to make me once, the one that collapsed like a wet paper bag.
I told her this one might do the same.
it didn’t.
the smell filled the house slow. like comfort sneaking in after you’ve already locked the door. like vanilla in December.
I tapped the Dutch oven on the stove—out of habit.
the dent still there. still saying nothing.
I didn’t burn it. the cake, I mean.
not this time.
A Few Things I Learned
apple peels don’t ruin anything.
the pan doesn’t need to be round to be holy.
and sometimes, baking at 9:47pm is the sanest thing you can do with a day that didn’t ask how you were feeling.
What I Did With the Extras
ate a slice standing at the sink. the rest went in foil, not because I planned to save it—but because I needed the act of wrapping something, sealing something, for once.
Would I Make It Again?
maybe not the same way.
but yes.
yes, I would.
That’s As Much As I Remember
the rain stopped while it cooled.
the silence in the house wasn’t loud anymore.
it was just… full.
If you want something warmer, I did a leek thing last December that hit harder.
FAQs
Sure. melt it first. but don’t overthink it—this isn’t a wedding cake. oil makes it softer. butter makes it richer. both make it cake.
nope. i didn’t. they soften enough, and the peel gives it some bite. martha probably would. i didn’t have the energy.
yes. both. warm slice in the morning with coffe, heaven. cold square at midnight with a spoon = therapy.
yeah. better the next day, honestly. something about the apples settling in. wrap it up. don’t refrigerate unless you like sad cake.
Check out More Recipes:
- Martha Stewart 7 Minute Frosting
- Martha Stewart Oatmeal Cookies
- Martha Stewart Lemon Meringue Pie
- Martha Stewart Coconut Cake
Martha Stewart Apple Cake
Description
A little lopsided, a little late—but sweeter than I expected.
Ingredients
Instructions
- Mix the dry stuff: grabbed the green pyrex and dumped in the flour, sugar, cinnamon, salt, baking soda. stirred it lazy, like i was half-listening to an old memory. no sifting. just stirred until it looked like it knew itself.
- Add the wet mess: cracked in the eggs. one shell piece fell in. got it out with my finger. poured in the oil. added vanilla without measuring—just a splash that smelled like 2008. stirred it rough. not proud of how it looked. trusted it anyway.
- Deal with the apples: didn’t peel them. sliced them like i was mad. uneven. some too thick, some nearly paper. tossed them in. the batter groaned. stirred until they disappeared into the beige.
- Pour and hope: scraped it into the chipped glass dish. tapped it once on the counter like it would settle my nerves. it didn’t. oven was already hot. shoved it in.
- Bake and wait: set a timer. ignored it. checked at 45 minutes. not done. again at 52. center stopped jiggling. edges pulled just a little. smelled like fall and grief. pulled it out and let it sit while the house finally exhaled.