The onions didn’t even sizzle right at first. The butter was soft but not hot enough, and I stirred anyway—because I wasn’t really cooking for food. I just needed to stir something.
It had been one of those still afternoons. No wind. No Mae. Not even the dog scratching the door like he used to before he figured out we weren’t going anywhere. The soup came from a folded page in Martha Stewart Living, torn out and jammed in the back of my drawer behind the broken zester. I don’t remember why I saved it. Maybe the picture was green. Maybe I thought broccoli would fix something.
What the Original Looked Like
Her Highness’s version is clean. Quiet. Butter and onion, flour whisked in like a ballet move, then stock and cream. There’s a softness to it, but also control. She calls for florets and the stems, peeled like they’re about to be interviewed. The cream doesn’t go in until the end—because of course it doesn’t. Timing is everything with her.
Mine didn’t go like that. But it tried.
What I Did Differently
I didn’t peel the stems. I just chopped them until they gave up. Used veggie broth, too—only because the chicken one had expired last winter and I didn’t want to smell it.
And I added a pinch of nutmeg, because I remember someone once told me it made green soups taste “rounder.” I don’t know what that means, but I believed them.
Oh—and I used that sea salt from Provincetown. The one from that weekend I shouldn’t keep remembering. But I do.
The Way It Happened in My Kitchen
I melted the butter too early. Then forgot it and it browned a little—so technically it was beurre noisette, which sounds fancier than it felt. The onions softened slow, like they were suspicious. I stirred them with the spoon that has the scorch mark down the handle. Same one I dropped the night Mae called from school crying about her first real heartbreak. I think it still smells like that mac and cheese.
Flour went in. I didn’t measure. Just eyeballed it. Whispered “sorry” to Martha out loud, which made me laugh. Then I whisked in broth and water like it was going to fix something. It didn’t.
The broccoli softened and I got distracted. The radio played an old Bonnie Raitt song I hadn’t heard in years and suddenly I was standing in the middle of the kitchen thinking about my father’s hands. He used to crush garlic with his fist and rub his fingers with lemon. No garlic in this one. Still smelled like him somehow.
The blender part was chaos. I spilled a little. Mae would’ve mocked me. I think I missed that. The silence was too smooth.
A Few Things I Learned
Don’t skip the salt. The salt matters. It pulls it all up from bland into… something better.
Also—cream at the end does make it feel more finished. But honestly? I liked it more before. It tasted simpler. Honest.
What I Did With the Extras
Ate it cold from the fridge the next morning. Standing. No spoon. Just the Pyrex bowl and me. Felt like penance. Or therapy. Not sure which.
Would I Make It Again?
Yes. On a quiet day. When the walls feel too clean and I need something green to break it.
That’s As Much As I Remember
The pan’s still warm on the stove.
The radio’s still playing.
I’ll stir something again tomorrow. Probably not soup. Probably something messier.
FAQs
Yeah, But It Gets A Little… Sleepy. Still Good. Just Stir It Well When You Reheat. And Maybe Add A Splash Of Broth To Wake It Back Up.
Mine Was—Used Veggie Broth Because The Chicken One In The Pantry Was Long Dead. But Her Highness Uses Chicken Stock, So Either Way Works. Depends On Who’S Eating.
Technically No. If You Like It Chunky, Live Your Truth. But Blending Gives It That Soft, Café-In-Your-Own-Kitchen Feel. I Only Did It Because I Needed The Quiet Hum Of The Blender More Than Anything.
Absolutely. Just Expect A Little Less Bite And A Little More Mush. Not A Bad Thing. Just A Different Mood.
I Had It Straight From The Bowl With Toast I Burned. Again. But If You Want To Feel Fancy, Some Crusty Bread, Sharp Cheddar On The Side, Maybe A Glass Of Cheap Wine. Or Eat It Cold From The Fridge Like A Sad Raccoon. No Judgment.
Check out More Recipes:
Martha Stewart Cream Of Broccoli Soup
Description
Soft, Green, And Just Creamy Enough To Feel Like Comfort—But Not Like Pretending.
Ingredients
Instructions
- Brown the butter & soften the onions: Let the butter melt in a medium pot over medium heat. Don’t rush it—let it go a little golden, even nutty, if the day feels dull. Add the diced onion and stir it occasionally for about 8 minutes, or until it slumps and starts to smell like you might remember something.
- Make the roux: Add the flour straight in. I didn’t measure precisely—somewhere near ¼ cup. Stir it constantly, like you’re trying to undo something, until it all comes together and smells toasty, about a minute.
- Add broth & simmer: Whisk in the broth and about a cup of water (I used veggie broth, but Her Highness called for chicken). Turn the heat up until it boils, then lower it and let it simmer quietly for 10 minutes. Whisk now and then. Breathe, if you remember to.
- Cook the broccoli: Add the chopped broccoli—stems and all, no peeling, no guilt—and let it come back to a simmer. Let it go for about 20 minutes, or until the broccoli gives in and turns tender. Stir once in a while with a spoon that means something to you.
- Blend it smooth: Ladle the soup into a blender, half-full. Hold the lid with a dish towel because accidents happen and some memories stain. Blend until smooth. Return it to the pot batch by batch. Taste as you go.
- Finish with cream & season: Stir in the cream (I used the full ¼ cup, then hesitated, then didn’t regret it). Let it warm through over medium heat. Season generously with sea salt and pepper. Add a whisper of nutmeg if you’re feeling sentimental. Or don’t.
- Serve: Eat it warm, maybe with bread. Maybe not. I stood at the counter with the green Pyrex and a spoon and didn’t speak for a while.