The heat was already on. That’s how it started.
Radiator clicking, not working. My hands were cold but the kitchen was warmer than the bedroom, so I stayed in it.
Didn’t mean to cook. Meant to toast something, maybe.
But then I found Her Highness’s baked French toast again — crumpled printout, faint orange stain in the corner, maybe marmalade, maybe something else. It looked like a soft landing. I needed one.
What the Original Looked Like
Martha’s version is crisp on the edges but floaty in the middle. Like a soufflé with rules. She dunks thick slices of brioche — nothing less, of course — in a citrusy custard with just enough Grand Marnier to make you feel like someone’s watching.
She bakes it flat on a tray. No stacking. No layering. No cinnamon, no chaos. Then she broils it, quick and cruel.
It’s not brunchy. It’s exact.
And the sugar — sanding sugar — not brown, not powdered, just sparkly and sharp. It finishes like a clean blouse.
What I Did Differently
I didn’t have sanding sugar. Used turbinado. Crunchier.
And I added vanilla. Not because it needed it — because I did.
That old bottle from Christmas-before — the good one. It still makes me pause when I open it.
I also let the slices sit longer in the custard. Hers says dip. I drowned mine. I wanted them soaked in something. Anything.
The Way It Happened in My Kitchen
The first tray went in quiet.
I leaned against the counter. Orange zest on my sleeve. Mae’s old sock under the radiator, half-charred from last winter.
The custard hissed as it hit the pan — not loud, but enough to break the morning.
I tapped the dent in the Dutch oven without thinking.
Didn’t need it. Just… muscle memory.
Twelve minutes passed. I checked too early. Still pale.
Then the broiler. That damn broiler.
I forgot how fast it goes. I got distracted — flipping through the mail, thinking about that Provincetown magnet that still won’t sit straight on the fridge.
Smelled like toast. Not the good kind.
Burnt a few corners. Scraped them. Ate them anyway.
The second tray came out better. Less broil, more watchfulness. I stood in front of the oven like a chaperone.
Butter melted faster than I expected. I didn’t wait to serve it. Just piled slices into the green Pyrex and stood by the sink.
Maple syrup ran too fast. Mae once told me it looked like amber bleeding. She was nine. Maybe ten.
A Few Things I Learned
The crust matters more than I thought. That broiler burn? It helped.
Also: orange + vanilla + cold floor = a kind of comfort I didn’t know I still needed.
And you don’t need a reason to cook something beautiful. Just warmth. Just breath.
What I Did With the Extras
Left them out.
Not to cool. Just because I forgot.
Mae wandered in around 11, ate one cold with her fingers. Didn’t say anything.
That felt like a win.
Would I Make It Again?
Yes. But only when I want something crisp on the outside and soft where it counts.
That’s As Much As I Remember
The pan was warm. The kitchen didn’t feel like February anymore.
I’ll make it again when the house needs a little sugar on the edges
If you want something messier, I did a leek thing last December that hit harder. burnt the top. still made me cry.
FAQs
You can—but it won’t hug the custard the same way. white bread soaks fast and tears easy. if you’re okay with a pudding-y mess, go for it.
Mostly, yeah. the broiler blast takes care of it. but if you’re feeding kids or anyone iffy about liqueur, skip it. orange juice + vanilla holds up just fine.
Then it’ll be soft and sweet and still good. broiling adds crunch, but skipping it doesn’t ruin a thing. it’s not a soufflé. it forgives.
You could soak the bread the night before, then bake fresh. but honestly? i like it best when it’s spontaneous and slightly chaotic. like breakfast should be.
Technically, sure. but thawed custard bread is a different creature. softer. a little sadder. if you do freeze it, toast it back to life.
Check out More Recipes
- Martha Stewart Pumpkin Cheesecake
- Martha Stewart Potatoes Au Gratin
- Martha Stewart Alfredo Fettuccine
- Martha Stewart Alfredo Sauce
Martha Stewart Baked French Toast
Description
A little crisp, a little soft, a little soaked in things I didn’t name.
Ingredients
Instructions
- Whisk the base: I cracked the eggs into that cracked Pyrex I never replace, added the Grand Marnier, sugar, salt, orange zest, juice, and the vanilla that still smells like Christmas-before. Whisked slow, like it mattered.
- Add the milk and breathe: poured in the milk and gave it one more lazy stir. let it sit a minute while I tried to remember if I’d fed the cat.
- Soak the brioche: dipped the slices and let them sit longer than Martha said. mine wanted to be drenched. soft edges. no apology.
- Bake it gently: lined two pans with parchment (the cheap kind that curls at the corners), laid the slices out flat, gave them space. baked at 375°F until just set—about 12 minutes. smelled like something sweet but tired.
- Broil with one eye open: turned on the broiler and stood there like a lifeguard. just 2–3 minutes, tops. the first batch went too far. burnt the corners. the second batch? better. more watchful.
- Serve without ceremony: stacked them in the green bowl I’ve had since college. syrup ran wild. butter melted before I could find a plate. mae ate hers cold. I didn’t stop her.