The sugar clumped in my elbow crease.
I wasn’t wearing sleeves. The windows were open, and the salt wind came in sideways, not soft, not sweet—like it was warning me. And the first thing I saw in the pantry was the bag of coconut flakes—too full to ignore, slightly clumpy like it had absorbed every sad spring since 2019. That’s how it started. I reached for them before I even thought of Her Highness’s coconut cake. But it found me anyway. Folded, dog-eared. The page with the filling had a sugar crust on it—like I’d left it open once, mid-boil, and never cleaned the mess.
This wasn’t a craving.
It was defiance.
I needed to make something white and loud and messy and wrong for the season. I needed sugar in my hair. I needed to beat eggs until I remembered who I used to be.
What the Original Looked Like
Her Highness’s Coconut Cake is a tower. No, a monument. Split layers, filled with coconut cream, sealed with that whipped white seven-minute frosting that somehow always tastes like a wedding you didn’t RSVP to. She does it in 6-inch pans, three of them, stacked and stuffed until they lean a little.
The filling is cooked like pudding. Milk, egg yolks, sugar, cornstarch—whisked into submission and then tamed with sweetened flake and vanilla. She’s generous with the coconut. That part I respect.
The cake itself is classic. Sour cream in the batter for moisture. No egg whites—just yolks, which means it comes out golden and stubborn. You frost it soft. You bury it in snowflake sugar shreds. And then you eat it like it never made you cry.
What I Did Differently
I didn’t have superfine sugar.
I used what I had—just regular, loud-grained stuff and pulsed it halfheartedly in the blender until it felt different enough. I swapped the seven-minute frosting for the last of a cream cheese one from the fridge (Mae made red velvet cupcakes and left it behind like it didn’t mean anything).
Also—I didn’t split the layers. Not properly. Just hacked them in half and hoped.
She wouldn’t approve.
But it held.
The Way It Happened in My Kitchen
The filling came first. I stood there whisking, waiting, wondering when it would thicken. The milk steamed up my glasses. I smelled burnt toast from the morning. I hadn’t eaten it. Just scraped it like always.
Mae walked through and said, “Is this the cake from that Easter with the bunny-shaped jello mold?”
I didn’t answer. Because yes. And no.
I forgot to temper the eggs properly. Dumped too fast. Scrambled slightly. Didn’t start over.
The cake batter came together like it knew me. Yellow and thick. The sour cream made it stubborn. I poured it into two 8-inch pans because I didn’t have three of anything. My good pans are at Alfie’s house still. Or maybe they’re gone. Doesn’t matter.
The whole place smelled like Sundays that used to matter.
I tapped the old Dutch oven with the back of a spoon while it cooled.
Didn’t mean to. I just do that sometimes.
When I frosted it—what I had, cream cheese and too much vanilla—I didn’t smooth it. I left it rough. Like drift snow. Like I meant it.
A Few Things I Learned
Let the cake cool all the way. Even if you’re impatient. Even if the sun comes through the window just right and you want to eat it on the counter.
Coconut hides the mistakes.
Also: it remembers.
What I Did With the Extras
I ate a slice standing up. Then another on the couch with a fork that kept sliding off the plate. Mae took a wedge, no plate, no words. Just a nod. That was enough.
I froze one layer. Forgot it until just now.
Would I Make It Again?
Not for spring.
But maybe for memory. Or rebellion. Or when I need to feel like sugar is louder than the wind.
That’s As Much As I Remember
The cake was too sweet. The way coconut always is when you’re not sad enough for it.
But it helped.
In the way whipped things sometimes do.
If you want something messier, I did a version of Martha’s cheesy leek bake last winter that nearly broke the oven—but worth it.
FAQs
You can, this cake is already a sugar event. If you’re trying to cut it, maybe just make something else. Or use half-and-half. I’ve done that when I ran out. No one noticed.
Nah. I used leftover cream cheese frosting once and it was actually better. Softer. More human. Just make sure whatever you use isn’t too stiff,this cake likes a little chaos.
All-purpose with a spoonful of cornstarch swapped in works fine. I’ve done it tired, half-measured, probably wrong. Still held together.
Yeah. I froze a whole layer by accident once. Ate it a month later. Texture was a little dense but honestly? Still tasted like a Sunday I needed.
Check out More Recipes:
Martha Stewart Coconut Cake
Description
A messy tower of memory, coconut, and cream cheese defiance.
Ingredients
Coconut Cream Filling
Cake
Frosting
Instructions
- Make the filling.Whisk the egg yolks. Heat the milk, sugar, cornstarch, and salt until it thickens (eventually).
- Add the yolks too fast (like I did), scramble a bit, don’t panic.
- Stir in the coconut and vanilla. Let it chill while you stare at something quiet.
- Make the batter.Cream softened butter and sugar. Add yolks, then alternate the flour mix and sour cream.
- Don’t forget the vanilla. Or do. It still works.
- Bake it.I used two 8-inch pans. No parchment. Should’ve used parchment.
- They stuck.Bake until golden and pulling from the edges—30ish minutes. Cool completely (really—wait).
- Assemble it.I didn’t split the layers. Just stacked them with frosting between. You can split if you feel fancy.
- Use whatever frosting makes you feel okay. I used leftover cream cheese.
- Press coconut flakes into the sides with your hands. Let them fall where they want.