The bowl was cold. Not fridge-cold—just… untouched. I hadn’t planned to make anything. The rain was doing that sideways thing it does here when the sea decides to argue with the wind, and the cat kept curling under the fridge like it was bracing for news. I opened the cupboard for tea. Found chocolate instead. You know the kind—too fancy for baking, too bitter to eat plain, but too stubborn to throw out.
That’s when I remembered Her Highness’s chocolate mousse. The one I’d saved on a dog-eared magazine page so long ago the ad on the back still said “try margarine.”
I don’t know why I started whisking. Maybe because Mae hasn’t called in three days. Maybe because I found the dented Pyrex bowl again—the one I thought I gave away. Maybe because bittersweet felt right.
What The Original Looked Like
Martha’s chocolate mousse is a quiet flex. Just yolks, sugar, cream, and dark chocolate—no fluff, no syrup, no espresso tricks. You cook the base low and slow until it clings like memory, then whisk in melted chocolate, vanilla, and later—whipped cream, carefully folded like laundry you actually care about.
It chills like a secret. Comes out glossy and still.
Her Highness doesn’t skip the straining step. She never does. Everything smooth. Everything proper.
What I Did Differently
I didn’t strain it. Didn’t feel like it. The custard seemed fine and I liked the tiny flecks—like proof I actually cooked something. Also… I don’t own a sieve that doesn’t live in the garage with the paint supplies.
I added a pinch of sea salt from that tin I keep—Provincetown, 2014. The lid barely fits now. Still smells like him, if I’m honest.
And I used vanilla paste instead of extract. It wasn’t a flex. It’s just what I grabbed.
How It Happened In My Kitchen
The yolks went in cold. I forgot to leave them out first. They fought me a little—tight, slow—but I whispered at them and they gave in. Sugar next. Just enough. I used the broken measuring spoon—the one that melted during that broiler fire. Still works if you guess right.
Cream clouded up in the pot. Mae used to call it “milk fog” when she was little. I stirred and stirred and stirred, afraid to stop. Afraid it’d split, or I would.
The chocolate melted slower than expected. Probably because I was distracted. The towel I grabbed still smelled like last week’s roast. Rosemary and panic.
When it all came together, it looked wrong. Too thick. Too shiny. I almost started over. But then I tasted it.
God.
I folded in the cream with the green spatula—the one she used for her lemon cake. The one that collapsed and we ate anyway. Same color. Same hope.
I chilled the mousse. Forgot it. Ate toast. Burnt the first slice. Of course.
When I remembered, it was midnight. I stood barefoot, fridge light on, eating straight from the bowl. Quiet house. Warm spoon.
A Few Things I Learned
You can taste memory in mousse.
A chilled spoon can feel like an apology.
And folding in whipped cream feels like forgiveness if you let it.
What I Did With the Extras
I left two ramekins on the counter for Mae. Just in case. She didn’t show up. They were still there in the morning. I ate one for breakfast.
Would I Make It Again?
Probably too soon. Probably too often.
That’s As Much As I Remember
The bowl is empty now.
And it’s quiet again.
But softer.
If you want something messier, I did a chocolate tart last spring that cracked down the middle like it meant to.
FAQs
Yep. actually better that way. something happens when it sits. the cold makes the chocolate more itself.
Yes. unless you want chocolate soup. but hey—your kitchen, your call.
You can, but it won’t taste like this. it’ll be sweeter, lighter, less… moody. sometimes that’s fine.
I did. martha wouldn’t approve. it still worked. a little texture never hurt anyone.
Check out More Recipes:
- Martha Stewart 7 Minute Frosting
- Martha Stewart Oatmeal Cookies
- Martha Stewart Lemon Meringue Pie
- Martha Stewart Coconut Cake
Martha Stewart Chocolate Mousse
Description
Velvety, bittersweet, and full of ghosts. I didn’t strain it. I don’t regret it.
Ingredients
Instructions
- Make the custard base: whisked the yolks, 2 tbsp sugar, and ¾ cup cream in the saucepan i always second-guess. kept the heat low. too low, maybe. stirred until it coated the spoon like it cared. almost walked away. didn’t.
- Add the chocolate and vanilla: took it off the heat. dumped in the melted chocolate, thick and moody. stirred slowly. added the vanilla. used the paste. didn’t measure. it smelled like december.
- Chill the base: skipped the straining. sorry, martha. poured it into a mixing bowl and left it to cool while i tried to remember what i came into the kitchen for.
- Whip the cream: beat the rest of the cream with the sugar. stiff peaks. louder than i meant to. mae used to call it “whipped clouds” when she was small. she doesn’t remember that. i do.
- Fold the cream in: stirred a third into the chocolate to loosen it up. the rest went in gently. soft folds. took my time. felt like stitching a secret shut.
- Chill again: spooned it into old ramekins and one chipped mug. covered them with plastic wrap that never sticks. tucked them in the fridge. forgot about them. remembered later. ate one cold, in silence.