The crust was already thawed when the power flickered.
I’d rolled it out with the side of my wrist because the pin cracked last month and I still haven’t replaced it.
Martha’s quiche Lorraine recipe was stuck to the fridge with that crooked Provincetown magnet. I didn’t mean to follow it. It just… stared me down.
It was gray out. Not raining, but like it wanted to. The kind of weather where toast tastes better burnt.
I wasn’t hungry. Just cold.
What Martha’s Version Looked Like
Her Highness doesn’t mess around with frills.
This quiche is base camp stuff: bacon crisped into submission, cream thick enough to remember, eggs whisked like they’re in rehearsal.
She starts with a tart shell that’s blind-baked within an inch of its life, lined and weighted and preened until golden. Then the filling: just eggs, cream, salt, pepper. Bacon layered after.
No herbs. No cheese. No distractions.
It’s so… her. Clean. Commanding. The kind of dish that sits perfectly still while you unravel.
What I Did (Or Didn’t)
I didn’t have slab bacon. Just a crumpled packet of the regular kind—maple smoked, which I knew she’d roll her eyes at.
I added cheddar. Not much. The heel of a block that tasted like Tuesdays in March.
And I forgot the broccoli. Not accidentally. Not on purpose. I just… forgot.
Mae asked if it was still a broccoli quiche if there wasn’t any broccoli. I said yes. She said “figures.”
How It Actually Happened
The crust didn’t trim clean.
I patched the edges with my thumbs, like clay. Forgot to freeze it first, so it slumped just slightly when it baked. Still held.
The bacon went in while I looked out the window too long. It crisped faster than I remembered.
I drained it on a paper towel that already had a butter stain from yesterday’s toast. Didn’t care.
Whisked the eggs with cream in that green Pyrex I’ve had since college. The handle’s cracked. I still use it.
The pepper went in heavy—I was thinking about something else. Him? Maybe.
I poured the mixture in while the crust was still warm. That’s not what Martha says to do, but it felt right.
Scattered the bacon. Grated the cheese. Poured a nervous splash of cream over the top, just to blur the rules.
Baked it until the top went golden in a way that looked like closure.
Mae said it smelled like breakfast at the old house.
I didn’t answer.
What I Learned Without Meaning To
Let the crust be crooked.
Let the eggs take their time.
Don’t call it broccoli quiche unless there’s broccoli in it. Or do. It still worked.
Also—
The oven hums when the house is this quiet. I’d forgotten that.
The Bit I Got Wrong (And Liked More)
I didn’t chill the crust. I didn’t pre-measure the cream.
I used shredded cheddar and too much pepper.
I meant to add broccoli. I didn’t.
It tasted like Sunday morning with no plans.
Better, somehow.
Would I Make It Again?
Yes. But not on purpose.
That’s As Much As I Remember
I scraped the last piece out of the pan at 3 p.m. with the side of a fork.
It was cold.
Still worked.
If you want something with actual vegetables, I made a cheesy leek thing last fall that nearly boiled over—but Mae still asked for seconds.
FAQs
you can. it won’t be as rich, but it still holds. i’ve done it on grocery day. add a bit of butter if you want it to fake the depth.
technically yes. emotionally, no. i’ve skipped the chill more times than i’ve followed it. crust gets a little soft—but so am i.
yeah. wrap it tight. reheat slow. it loses a bit of texture but still tastes like home.
blanch it first. or don’t. just cut it small so it cooks through. and yes—it is better with it. even though i forgot.
absolutely. bake it the night before, let it cool, then reheat at 300°F until warm. or serve it cold with strong coffee and less guilt.
Check out More Recipes:
- Martha Stewart Minestrone Soup
- Martha Stewart French Toast Casserole
- Martha Stewart Easy Crepes Recipe
- Martha Stewart Creamed Spinach
- Martha Stewart Alfredo Sauce
Martha Stewart Broccoli Quiche
Description
Made it tired, ate it cold. No regrets.
Ingredients
Instructions
- Make the crust: floured the counter half-heartedly. rolled the dough with a wine bottle because the pin’s cracked. patched the tears like a tired potter. pressed it into the tart pan, rough edges and all. forgot to chill it—straight to the oven it went, with parchment and old beans i keep in a jar. twenty minutes. took out the beans. back in. golden enough. let it cool while i stared at nothing.
Cook the bacon: tossed the strips in a cold pan. turned the heat to medium and walked away. came back to crackling. flipped them when the smell turned sharp. drained on a napkin with coffee stains. ate one without thinking.
Whisk the filling: eggs, cream, salt, pepper—no measuring. used the green pyrex that’s lost its shine. whisked until smoothish. added the cheddar out of guilt. thought about the broccoli. didn’t move.
Assemble the quiche: poured the mixture into the still-warm crust. scattered bacon like breadcrumbs. drizzled the last bit of cream over the top like i was blessing it. thought again about the broccoli. still didn’t get up.
Bake and serve: oven still at 400°F. slid it in gently. baked until puffed and golden like it was trying. let it sit thirty minutes while mae scrolled beside me in silence. served warm. ate standing up. didn’t miss the broccoli at all.