The crust was already thawing by the time I realized what I was doing.
I don’t even remember pulling it from the freezer. Just… there it was. Softening on the counter like it had made the choice for me. The same store-bought one I used to use when Mae was little and mornings were louder. Back then I’d call it “brunch” to make myself feel like I had it together. Bacon. Eggs. A quiet kitchen if I was lucky. Same smell, almost.
The window was cracked open. It smelled like someone else’s spring.
What Her Highness Does with It
Martha’s version is clean. Exact. Everything lined up.
The crust gets blind-baked, then cooled like a patient. The onions? Sautéed to submission—golden, soft, no edge left. Gruyere, of course. Eggs and cream in a neat little swirl. She says ¾ pound of bacon like she measured it with a ruler. Hers is all posture and polish. Like brunch should come with linen napkins and polite conversation.
I used to resent that. Now I just squint at it and try to remember if I ever had that kind of control.
What I Did Differently
I didn’t blind bake the crust long enough. It puffed a bit. I stabbed it with a fork and moved on.
Used the rest of the bacon from Sunday. Not quite ¾ pound, but close enough to feed someone. My onions went darker. Not on purpose—Mae called while they were in the pan, asking if I still had that bean thing recipe I used to make when she had strep.
I added more cheese than she said. Because I needed to.
The Way It Happened in My Kitchen
I started whisking the eggs with the cream, but the bowl was too small.
Swapped it for the green Pyrex from college. The one with the chip.
The yolks looked brighter than I remembered. Maybe they always did.
Bacon crumbled with fingers, not a knife. Onion still warm when it hit the mix. The Gruyere clumped at the bottom like it was hiding. I didn’t stir enough. I never do. Poured the whole mess into the crust and said a little nothing under my breath. Something like: don’t split. just hold.
When it went into the oven, I sat down on the floor.
Back against the cabinet. Just for a minute.
That’s when the smell hit. Garlic? No—just the onions. But it pulled something.
The last time I made this was the week I packed up his books.
Left a slice in the fridge and a note that said eat this, not your pride.
The oven buzzed. I didn’t move.
What I Learned
It still tastes like Sunday.
Even when it’s Thursday. Even when you eat it standing up with your coat still on.
The cheese gets louder after it cools. So does the silence.
What I Did With the Extras
Mae said it smelled like the house she grew up in.
She took the last piece. Didn’t ask.
Would I Make It Again?
Probably. But not for a party. Just for when I forget I need it.
That’s As Much As I Remember
The crust flaked more than I expected.
It was softer by the window. I think the radiator finally kicked in.
If soft food’s your thing, I did a cheesy potato mess last week you might like. it ended up everywhere. worth it.
FAQs
Absolutely. that’s what i used. martha might raise an eyebrow. i didn’t look.
Sure. cheddar works. swiss works. anything that melts like it means it. just don’t use mozzarella unless you want soup.
Please do. raw onion in a quiche is… aggressive. cook them until they stop shouting.
Been there. add a splash more cream. pretend you meant to do it that way. no one will know.
Check out More Recipes:
- Martha Stewart Asparagus Quiche
- Martha Stewart Spinach Quiche
- Martha Stewart Broccoli Quiche
- Martha Stewart Lorraine Quiche
Martha Stewart Cheese And Bacon Quiche
Description
Made it for comfort, not for company.
Ingredients
Instructions
- Roll the crust: pulled the dough from the fridge and forgot why. floured the counter with one hand, flattened it out with the old pin that squeaks. pressed it into the pie plate, crimped the edges with my fingers—badly, but enough. stabbed it with a fork like it had something to answer for.
- Blind bake it: tossed parchment over the crust, poured in the beans i keep in a jar for this one thing. baked it until it looked dry and a little bored. pulled the paper and weights out. didn’t wait for it to cool all the way. probably should’ve.
- Cook the onions: melted butter in the skillet while i looked for silence. dumped in the onions and stirred with the wooden spoon that smells like garlic no matter what. let them go until they softened. they didn’t caramelize. they just gave up a little.
- Whisk the custard: cracked eggs into the Pyrex with the chip. added cream. forgot the salt, remembered it halfway through. whisked until it looked like something rich and yellow. almost dropped it when the phone rang.
- Add the fillings: stirred in the warm onions, bacon from Sunday, grated too much cheese and added all of it. the spoon clunked. it smelled like breakfast at the wrong time of day.
- Bake the quiche: poured the filling into the half-cooled crust. it overflowed a little. wiped the edge with my sleeve. baked it until the center didn’t jiggle much. crust went golden. the top puffed. it sighed when i cut into it.
- Eat, eventually: let it sit while the world spun a bit. Mae called halfway through. i told her there was some left. there wasn’t. just crumbs and the smell of bacon hanging around like a memory.