It was raining sideways again. the kind that sounds like someone dragging their fingers down the windows. i was cold in that dumb way—sweater on, still shivering, stomach too empty to feel like mine. the pie wasn’t planned. the blueberries were just there. not from some pick-your-own moment—plastic clamshells from the grocery store, two of them bruised, one leaking.
Martha calls it a blueberry pie, but it felt more like a dare.
What The Original Looked Like
Her original is stiff-lipped and exact.
8 cups of berries. cornstarch like a chemistry class. lemon juice at precisely one tablespoon, as if half a teaspoon more might start a landslide. she dots with butter like she’s painting a still life. even the crust—Pâte Brisée—is spoken of like it has a French passport and a superiority complex.
It’s beautiful.
And a little smug.
The crust is chilled twice. the top gets crimped like a debutante’s hair. vents sliced like precise little wounds.
It bakes long. smells good. looks better.
What I Did Differently
I didn’t have her damn Pâte Brisée.
I used the one from Mae’s last birthday tart—scraps frozen into a lopsided puck I rolled too thin because I couldn’t wait. didn’t sift the flour. didn’t sweep anything with a pastry brush.
Also? I crushed more than half a cup of the berries. got carried away. hands stained, something satisfying in the squish of it. I added a splash more lemon, too. not measured. just felt right.
The top crust tore when I tried to lift it. patched it. cursed. kept going.
The Way It Happened in My Kitchen
The filling oozed before it even hit the oven.
I tried to make it behave, pressing the top crust in like it owed me rent. the egg wash pooled in the center and I tried to mop it with a paper towel, made it worse.
Mae came in barefoot, said it smelled like “jam getting emotional.”
I tapped the dent in the Dutch oven as I waited. not with purpose—just out of habit. like knocking on something to prove it still echoes.
The pie leaked, of course.
Bubbling over like a secret told too fast.
And I didn’t line the sheet tray. I never do. why do I never—
anyway.
It baked longer than I meant. but the top turned this wild, lacquered gold.
Looked like something you’d find on a magazine cover in 1998. the kind Nan used to clip and tape to the fridge.
I remembered her dry pie.
And how proud she was of it.
I wondered if this one would flake or shatter.
A Few Things I Learned
Blueberries don’t care about rules.
They burst when they want.
They stain your shirt.
They remind you that control is mostly a lie.
And even when the crust is too salty, the filling too wet—it still tastes like summer you thought you’d forgotten.
What I Did With the Extras
Mae picked the pie apart with a fork. only ate the filling.
Said the crust was “too hard to love.”
I ate my slice cold at 10 p.m. over the sink.
Just standing there.
Swearing softly.
Thinking about Provincetown and the salt I used on the last chicken we ruined.
Would I Make It Again?
Yeah.
On a rainy day.
When something needs to break.
That’s As Much As I Remember
The rain stopped before the pie cooled.
The windows were streaked.
I didn’t clean the counter. just left the mess and went to bed.
If you want something warmer, I did a version of Martha’s peach galette last summer that stuck to the pan but made me cry in a good way.
FAQs
Yeah. just don’t thaw them first unless you like purple puddles and regrets.
It does something. brightens. sharpens. cuts the sweetness like a memory you didn’t expect to come back.
You don’t. not really. it’s a fruit pie. it wants to escape. just line the pan or embrace the mess.
I’ve used flour. i’ve used tapioca. once, i used nothing and called it “rustic.” it’ll still taste like summer.
Check out More Recipes:
Martha Stewart Blueberry Pie
Description
Soft in the middle, golden on top, and just unruly enough to matter.
Ingredients
Instructions
- Make the crust: floured the counter with a heavy hand. rolled the dough too thin at the edges, too thick in the middle. didn’t care. draped it into the pie plate with my forearms more than my fingers. trimmed it like a haircut i didn’t want to give. threw the top crust on parchment, tossed both in the fridge. needed them to calm down.
- Smash the berries: dumped the blueberries in a green bowl that still smells like onions. crushed a handful with my palms. juice everywhere. added sugar, cornstarch, lemon. stirred with a spoon that bent at the handle. it clumped. i ignored it.
- Fill the pie: grabbed the crust from the fridge. spooned in the mess, mounded it in the middle like it was proud of itself. dotted with butter like Martha said, but mine were bigger. colder. less dainty.
- Top it: laid the other crust on top. tore it in two. patched it like drywall. tucked the edges under, crimped with fork tines that didn’t match. not pretty. didn’t care. cut vents with a steak knife. they looked accidental. maybe they were.
- Brush and chill: whisked the yolk and cream in a chipped mug. brushed it on like paint, uneven and pooling in the dents. back to the fridge. let it sit while the oven screamed itself hot.
- Bake the damn thing: tossed it on a tray i forgot to line. baked at 400 until the kitchen felt crowded. turned it down. rotated halfway through. the juices hissed and spit like they were mad about being contained. crust went gold, then bronze, then a little too far.
- Cool (or don’t): left it on the counter because i was tired. Mae said it looked “like a crime scene dessert.” she wasn’t wrong.