I Tried Martha Stewart’s Lemon Bars, and It Felt Like Mae Was Little Again
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Martha Stewart Lemon Bars
Leave a Comment on I Tried Martha Stewart’s Lemon Bars, and It Felt Like Mae Was Little Again
It smelled like the year she made me that cake.
Too much zest, powdered sugar on everything—walls, floor, the dog.
The whole kitchen was chaos. But I didn’t stop her. Not once.
So when I zested the lemon for Martha’s bars this week, it hit me.
Same smell. Same ache.
She was 9 then. Now she sends me memes and forgets to call.
What the Original Looked Like
Her Highness doesn’t mess around here.
She gives you a real shortbread crust—cold butter, powdered sugar, flour. Baked golden.
Then a lemon filling that’s more custard than curd. Smooth. Eggy. Bright.
She tells you to pour it while the crust’s still warm.
Let it bake again until just set—no browning, no puffing. Just lemon stillness.
It’s a quiet kind of dessert. But it lands loud if you let it.
What I Did Differently
I didn’t sift anything.
And my lemons weren’t pretty—one was bruised, the other had no zest left. I used them anyway.
The sugar was granulated, not caster.
I didn’t care. Mae’s not picky. She was never picky about sweets.
The Way It Happened in My Kitchen
The butter wouldn’t cut right.
I had to use my fingers halfway through. Martha would’ve sighed.
But it came together.
The crust baked while I whisked the filling.
The radio was playing something old—Fleetwood Mac, maybe. Or maybe that was just in my head.
I poured the lemon mix onto the still-warm base and held my breath.
It slid like silk. No lumps. No regrets.
Twenty-five minutes later, it barely wobbled.
That’s how I knew.
I dusted sugar once it cooled, just like she did when she was small—clumsy, joyful, heavy-handed.
The bars looked too perfect. I almost didn’t eat one.
Almost.
A Few Things I Remembered While It Baked
Mae used to think lemon meant sunshine.
I didn’t correct her. Still don’t.
And Martha’s bars? They taste like a memory pressed flat in sugar.
What I Did With the Extras
I packed two for Mae in foil.
The rest I wrapped and froze.
Then ate three more while standing over the sink.
Would I Make It Again?
Yes.
And next time I’ll leave the sugar a little messy, just like she used to.
That’s As Much As I Remember
The bars were soft. Tangy. The kind of sweet that hums, not shouts.
I’ll bake them again when I miss her too much to say it out loud.
If lemon’s your pull-string memory too, I did a sour cream citrus loaf last spring that collapsed beautifully.
FAQs
yeah. the bottled stuff’s sad. this needs real brightness.
you could. but why would you? it’s the snow on top.
yes. unless you want lemon lava. which… might not be bad.
crumbly, but holds together. buttery. golden at the edges.
yep. wrap each one. they’re even better cold.
Martha Stewart Lemon Bars – Nell’s Version
Description
Zesty, soft-edged, and a little like childhood if you slice it just right.
Ingredients
For the crust
For the lemon filling
Instructions
- Preheat the oven. Set it to 175°C (350°F). Line your baking pan—mine was 9×13—with parchment. I didn’t bother greasing. Didn’t need it.
- Make the crust. Stir the flour, powdered sugar, and salt in a bowl. Add cold butter and rub it in with your fingers until it clumps like wet sand. Press it into the pan with your palms. Mine cracked a little. It’s fine.
- Bake the base. Pop it in the oven for 18 minutes or so. You want it lightly golden, not browned. While that’s going—
- Mix the filling. Whisk eggs and sugar together until they stop looking grainy. Add flour, lemon juice, and zest. Whisk again until it feels smooth and silky. Smells like sunshine.
- Pour and bake again. As soon as the crust’s out, pour the lemon mix on top. It’ll sizzle a little. Bake again—20 to 25 minutes—until the center barely jiggles and the top looks matte, not shiny.
- Cool it down. Let it sit. I waited an hour. Then dusted with sugar and cut them into squares.
One disappeared before the knife hit the next line.