The kitchen was still cold. I hadn’t turned on the heat yet because I was pretending spring meant something up here. But my hands were raw and stiff and I’d run out of excuses, so I opened the fridge and there it was—cream cheese, just sitting there like a dare. I didn’t plan on making Martha’s Easter Eggs. I didn’t even remember they were hers until I looked up the ratio and saw that smirk of hers on the printed page. Coconut and peanut butter—divided, like most things around this time of year. I made both.
What Martha’s Version Looked Like
Her Highness calls for two pounds of confectioners’ sugar. Two. I didn’t flinch—I’ve learned not to question her math, even when it feels like sabotage. Cream cheese, margarine (but I always use butter, she knows this), vanilla, the sugar avalanche. Then you split it—half gets peanut butter, the other half gets coconut. Mold them like eggs. Freeze. Dip. Chill. It’s not baking. It’s sculpture. Martha’s version feels precise, seasonal, and unbothered. I was none of those things.
What I Did Differently (Because I Always Do)
I swapped margarine for butter. Always do. I also didn’t measure the coconut. I dumped it in until it felt unfair. And the chocolate—I used what I had. Bittersweet chips, some leftover bar chopped in. No shortening. Just a whisper of oil and crossed fingers.
Also—I didn’t shape them like eggs. Not really. More like tired ovals. Some looked like river stones. Some looked like they needed a nap.
The Way It Happened in My Kitchen
Cream cheese fights back when it’s cold, so I left it on the counter too long and it got sweaty. Mixed it with the softened butter anyway, and the vanilla—the good kind, the one that smells like Christmas before the divorce. The sugar came in waves. Mae wandered in after the second pound and said it smelled like a candy store and a headache.
When I got to the coconut, I hesitated. It’s always the coconut that stops me. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s the way it clings, how it doesn’t dissolve, how it remembers. I stirred it in with my hands because the spoon broke. Not that day, years ago—but I still keep it in the drawer. Plastic. Melted. Useful.
The peanut butter batch was easier. Smoother. Comfort food disguised as work. The shaping took too long. I froze them and forgot about them for three hours. The chocolate was too hot at first—I dipped one, it cracked, I cursed, I waited.
Eventually, they all wore coats of chocolate. Shiny. Uneven. Some cracked like old paint. Some looked like they belonged at a bake sale. One stuck to the pan and broke in half when I tried to move it. I ate that one immediately.
A Few Things I Learned
Cold candy isn’t quiet. It cracks when it shouldn’t.
Coconut carries memory like nothing else.
And sometimes it’s okay to dip things imperfectly—especially when no one’s watching but the dog.
What I Did With the Extras
I gave Mae the peanut butter ones. She called them “Reese’s by way of nostalgia.”
The coconut stayed in the fridge. I ate one every morning with coffee like a secret.
One I left on the windowsill too long—it melted into a chocolate puddle on a saucer. I licked the spoon. I didn’t feel bad about it.
Would I Make It Again?
Probably. But not for Easter. For February. For loneliness. For when something needs to be dipped in chocolate just to be bearable.
That’s As Much As I Remember
The radiator kicked on just as the last one set.
The chocolate hardened. My mood didn’t.
But I’ll make them again. Probably when I forget why I stopped.
If you want something with the same sweet melancholy, I made a version of Martha’s lemon cake once after Mae tried and failed. That one collapsed. We ate it off the rack anyway.
FAQs
Yep. They Freeze Fine. The Coconut Ones Get A Little Icy Inside, But It’S Weirdly Good With Hot Coffee.
I Mean… Yeah. Otherwise The Dough’S Sticky And Moody. Her Highness Knew What She Was Doing. This Time.
Sure. Double The Peanut Butter Batch If You Want. Or Just Say It Was Intentional And Call Them “Custom.”
Whatever’S In The Pantry. Bittersweet Holds Up, But I’Ve Used Milk Chocolate Bars From Mae’S Halloween Stash Before. No Regrets.
The Chocolate Was Too Hot. Or The Eggs Weren’T Frozen Enough. Or You Were Just Emotional. It Happens.
Check out More Recipes:
Martha Stewart Easter Eggs
Description
They Crack When Cold, Melt When You Look At Them Too Long, And Taste Like A Sugar Apology.
Ingredients
Instructions
- Prepare the Dough: In a big bowl, beat together the cream cheese, softened butter, and vanilla extract. Once it’s smooth-ish, start adding the powdered sugar in waves. Clouds will rise. That’s how you know it’s working. Stir until it’s thick and hard to move. You’ll switch to hands before it’s over.
- Split and Stir: Divide the dough in half. Mix peanut butter into one. Flaked coconut into the other. Use your hands. They’ll smell amazing.
- Shape the Eggs: Roll into egg-ish shapes. Or blobs. Or whatever you’ve got the strength for. Lay them on wax paper and freeze until firm—an hour, minimum. They need to hold their shape before you dip.
- Melt the Chocolate: Over simmering water, melt the semisweet chocolate chips with shortening. Stir slowly, with intention. When it’s glossy and smells like childhood, you’re ready.
- Dip and Chill: Dip each frozen egg into the chocolate. Use a fork if you’re neat. Fingers if you’re honest. Let the excess drip off. Place back on wax paper. Freeze again until set.
- Eat Cold or Not: I ate mine from the fridge. Mae ate hers before they finished cooling. No wrong way. These are no-bake Easter candies, not science experiments.