The first asparagus of the season always hits like a memory.
Not a loud one. Something thin.
Sharp like the knife I shouldn’t be using on that old cutting board.
Bright like Mae’s voice before she got tall and sarcastic.
This morning it was the smell of leeks in butter that did it—real butter, not the half-open stick I keep meaning to throw out. The kitchen smelled like 2009. Or maybe earlier. Maybe that Easter when I made a pie and the filling cracked but no one cared.
Her Highness calls it asparagus quiche but it could just as well be a time machine.
What the Original Looked Like
Martha’s version is elegant, naturally.
The leeks soften just right. The asparagus gets its moment—not too crisp, not too limp. A whisper of nutmeg, because she likes a twist of something European.
She uses half-and-half like it’s always in the fridge. The crust is chilled like it’s been waiting its whole life to be filled.
And the Gruyère—oh, of course it’s Gruyère. Not cheddar. Not what I had. Gruyère.
Her version is brunch perfection.
But I wasn’t hosting anyone. I was just… hungry. And a little sad.
What I Did Differently
Didn’t have half-and-half. Used whole milk and a splash of cream from a cracked bottle that might’ve expired yesterday.
No Gruyère. I had Swiss. Sharp-ish. Dry around the edges. It worked.
And my crust? Store-bought. Not chilled. I pressed it in with my fingers and didn’t care if it tore.
Her Highness would’ve sighed.
But the leeks were sweet and soft. And the asparagus looked like spring even though the windows stayed closed.
The Way It Happened in My Kitchen
Leeks went in first. I always start there.
It’s the sound—like soft shoes on old floorboards.
Mae walked through, grabbed a carrot, said nothing.
The asparagus curled in the pan like it remembered how to be green again. I overcooked it. It still tasted good.
I whisked the eggs with the milk, trying not to think.
The nutmeg fell in too fast—no pinch, just a tumble. I swore. Then laughed. Then swore again.
The crust was already slouching by the time I poured it all in. Cheese. Veg. Eggs.
Into the oven it went, and I sat on the floor while it baked. The radiator clicked. The dog snored.
The smell? That’s what undid me.
Warmth. Onion-sweet. The kind of thing that makes you think someone’s coming over.
But no one was.
What I Learned
Even when you mess with it, it holds.
The eggs puff, then settle. The edges go golden.
And it doesn’t matter if the crust cracks.
That just lets the memory out faster.
What I Did With the Extras
Ate it cold that night, standing at the counter.
Texted Mae a picture. She sent back “what is that??”
She still ate half when she came by the next day.
Didn’t even heat it up.
Would I Make It Again?
Yeah. On a lonely morning. Or a bright one. Or one that doesn’t know what it is yet.
That’s As Much As I Remember
It was quieter after.
The pie plate empty, a little sticky.
The windows still shut.
But it smelled like a promise.
If soft food’s your thing, I did a cheesy potato mess last week you might like.
FAQ’S
Sure. just thaw it, dry it, pretend it’s fresh, and don’t tell martha. it’ll still taste like spring if you squint.
I didn’t the first time. it was… soggy. not in a charming way. so yeah, do it. even if it feels fussy.
Yep. swiss worked fine. cheddar makes it louder. feta gets weird but good. use what your fridge forgives.
Three days, maybe four,if it lasts that long. mine was gone in two. cold from the fridge is secretly better.
Check out More Recipes:
Martha Stewart Asparagus Quiche
Description
Bright, custardy, and slightly uneven—like that spring I tried to forget.
Ingredients
Instructions
- Blind-bake the crust: turned the oven to 350°F. pressed the store-bought crust into the plate like it owed me rent. pricked it with a fork. threw it in the oven for ten minutes while i dealt with the asparagus. no weights. no beans. just hope.
- Cook the leeks and asparagus: melted the butter in my old skillet, the one that warps left. leeks went in first, soft and slow. asparagus followed—diagonal cuts because martha says so. salted it like spring was coming. peppered it like i meant it. cooked until tender-ish, then forgot it was still warm when i poured it later. that’s life.
- Whisk the egg mix: four eggs in the green bowl i’ve had since college. added milk, a splash of cream. the nutmeg tumbled in too fast again. whisked like it might fix something. tasted it. didn’t help. added more salt. said it was enough.
- Assemble the quiche: crust was barely cool. layered the swiss like i was layering memory. added the warm veg. poured the eggs on top and watched it sink between the spears like the tide coming back in. nearly spilled it carrying to the oven. caught it with my hip.
- Bake it slow: set it on a sheet tray—because martha’s voice was in my head. baked for almost an hour. didn’t turn it. didn’t check it. smelled when it was done. the top had that puffed, golden look that made me want to text someone who wouldn’t reply.
- Cool and serve: let it sit while the dog stared at me. mae wasn’t home. no parsley. no plates. ate it with a fork, straight from the dish. still warm. still good.