I Tried Martha Stewart’s Lemon Curd — It Got Under My Skin

It started with the sound of rain and the smell of something sharp. not vinegar. not wine. something yellow and stubborn.
lemon, maybe. or memory.

the house was too quiet.
no radio. mae was at school. the towel on the oven door still smelled like the last time i burned rice.
i didn’t plan to cook. but there it was—Her Highness’s Lemon Curd—folded into the back of a magazine that had coffee rings on it from when i still drank coffee with him.
so i cracked the eggs.

What the Original Looked Like

martha’s lemon curd is all glass and precision.
eight yolks. just the yolks. she makes it sound easy, like you wouldn’t hesitate for a second while tossing the whites into a bowl and forgetting them there until they start to smell like regret.

you whisk sugar, lemon zest, and yolks before you even turn the heat on. then add cold butter—ten tablespoons, because of course she measured—cut into those little, smug cubes. it’s supposed to thicken just enough to cling. not coat, not clot. just cling.

she tells you not to let it boil.
like she doesn’t know what kind of day you’re having.

What I Did Differently (Don’t Tell Her)

i didn’t zest.
not properly. my zester’s bent from the time mae tried to grate frozen butter for pancakes. i used a knife and scraped what i could. the curls were too big. smelled right though.
i also added a pinch of vanilla. not because she said to. because it was still in my hand from making something sweet the night before.
christmas before the divorce. that’s what vanilla always smells like.
i didn’t want to, but i did. and now it’s in the jar.

The Way It Happened in My Kitchen

the yolks broke too fast.
i whisked like it would help, like speed fixes anything. the sugar refused to disappear. i remembered nan’s pie crust at that moment—dry and proud and never sweet enough. she would’ve called lemon curd “fussy pudding.” she also thought tupperware was communist.

the curd started to thicken while i was thinking about her. i forgot to watch the edges. almost boiled. almost.
i tapped the side of the pan with the whisk. same way i tap the dutch oven when i’m alone. the dent’s still there. so’s the reason.

i strained it into a green pyrex bowl i’ve had since college. it hissed when it hit the glass.
mae would’ve licked the spatula if she’d been home.
i did instead.

A Few Things I Learned

the color is louder than the taste.
and if you press the wrap too hard, it leaves a ring.
also—if you let it sit in the fridge overnight, it firms up like it’s trying to forget what it used to be.

What I Did With the Extras

spread it on toast.
burnt toast. of course. scraped the black off with a paring knife i shouldn’t trust anymore.
and then just ate it like that. standing. barefoot. the dog staring.

Would I Make It Again?

yes. especially if i needed to remember something sour.

That’s As Much As I Remember

it stopped raining halfway through.
but the curd tasted like weather.
and i liked that.

if you want something messier, i did a ricotta tart thing once that nearly leaked into the oven cracks. worth it.

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