It started with the eggs. not the mixing, not the pan — just the sound of the carton cracking open.
I hadn’t made crepes in years. maybe since Mae was little. maybe longer.
I used to make them in a panic. back when I thought thin meant elegant and elegance meant control. now I just wanted something soft.
It was raining, of course. the kind that hits the porch like it’s angry you left the door unlocked. I hadn’t planned to cook. just needed something warm and fragile.
Her Highness’s recipe was scribbled on the back of an old envelope, next to a biscuit ratio from 2007. I didn’t even check the date.
What The Original Looked Like
Martha’s version — it’s practically a breath. flour, eggs, milk, sugar. a whisper of salt. she says to use a blender, of course. Her Highness loves her gadgets.
You rest the batter. you swirl. it’s all very civilized.
They’re delicate. golden at the edges, soft in the middle. you stack them like good behavior. I remember thinking once — when I first made them — that it felt like folding laundry that smelled like cake.
What I Did Differently
I didn’t blend it. didn’t feel like plugging anything in. just whisked it by hand with the chipped whisk that always leans left.
Used oat milk. the good kind. the one Mae says doesn’t taste like sadness.
And I didn’t wait 30 minutes. I barely waited 5.
because grief doesn’t rest. it flips fast and leaves a mark.
The Way It Happened In My Kitchen
The first one stuck. always does.
the pan was too cold or too proud.
Second one flipped sideways, landed half in the dog bowl. Alfie approved.
By the third, the rhythm found me. swirl, tilt, breathe.
reminded me of that summer in Provincetown — the sea salt one.
he liked crepes. we ate them off a paper towel, on a dock that slanted toward goodbye.
Mae walked in halfway through and said, “You’re making those again?”
I said yes.
She said, “Good. But don’t put jam in mine. Just sugar. And lemon.”
She still remembers.
So do I.
A Few Things I Learned
The batter forgives you, if you whisk like you mean it.
You don’t need a perfect circle. just a soft one.
And lemon sugar on a crepe — it’s not just a topping. it’s a time machine.
What I Did With the Extras
Ate two over the sink. stood barefoot. didn’t use a plate.
Mae took three, rolled them like little secrets, disappeared upstairs.
The last one I folded like a note I didn’t send.
Would I Make It Again?
Yes.
Especially when I miss her.
Either of them.
That’s As Much As I Remember
The rain got quieter.
The stack cooled.
I didn’t wrap them. just let them sit, warm and imperfect, on the counter.
like memory does.
If you want something messier, I did Her Highness’s buckwheat galettes once and the whole pan rebelled. still worth it.
FAQs
yeah. martha says wait. i didn’t. they still worked. maybe a little less graceful, but so am i.
Nope. i used a whisk and a bowl and a little bit of faith. your arm will forgive you eventually.
Whatever’s in the fridge. lemon and sugar is my forever. mae likes nutella but pretends she doesn’t.
sure. stack them with a little parchment between, wrap ‘em up, fridge or freezer. reheat in a pan — or eat them cold over the sink. i’ve done both.
Welcome to the club. just fold it and pretend it’s rustic. or eat it fast so no one sees.
Check out More Recipes:
- Martha Stewart Biscuits
- Martha Stewart French Toast
- Martha Stewart Cinnamon Rolls
- Martha Stewart Easy Waffle Recipe
- Martha Stewart Baked French Toast
Martha Stewart Easy Crepes Recipe
Description
Made them for comfort, not for company.
Ingredients
Instructions
- Make the batter: cracked the eggs straight into the flour. didn’t sift. didn’t regret it. added the sugar and salt like muscle memory. poured in the oat milk slow, whisking like it might fix something. butter went in last, a warm ribbon. let it rest while i found the skillet, or didn’t.
Heat the pan: used the old nonstick with the warped handle. too lazy to level it. brushed with butter that browned a little — smelled like mornings before mae left for school.
Swirl the crepe: poured a nervous ¼ cup in the middle. tilted the pan like i was apologizing to it. batter spread thin, patchy in spots. didn’t fix it. let it cook until the edges curled up like they were whispering.
Flip and finish: loosened it with the same rubber spatula i’ve had since 2003. fingers did the rest. flipped too early. then too late. figured it out by the third one. second side was faster — just enough to hold together. slid it onto a plate that still had jam from last week.
Repeat until full: kept going. pan, butter, swirl, flip. stacked them soft and uneven. mae took hers with lemon. i took mine with silence. left the last one in the pan longer than i meant to. almost burnt. didn’t care.