The crust was already made.
Store-bought. Slightly cracked on one side like it had something to say about me.
The fridge was humming too loud and I hadn’t eaten anything that wasn’t a saltine or a shard of cheddar in two days. I wasn’t craving sweetness, exactly. I just needed to stir.
The recipe popped up in an old folder I didn’t know I’d saved — Martha Stewart’s Lemon Meringue Pie.
I wasn’t trying to feel anything. But lemon does that.
Always has.
What The Original Looked Like
Her Highness doesn’t mess around.
Martha’s version is all clean lines and confident separation. A crust you blind bake with paper and beans. A curd that doesn’t flinch. A meringue with stiff peaks and no personality crisis.
She adds cornstarch to the lemon mix — smart, classic — and piles the meringue so it meets the crust like a dress hem hitting the floor just right.
It chills. It firms. It waits.
A pie that knows how to hold its shape.
Wish I did.
What I Did Differently
I didn’t make the curd the way she asked. Not exactly. I had a jar of lemon curd from the fancy grocer — the one I bought during that Provincetown weekend, back when I was pretending I didn’t need anyone. I stirred in the water and cornstarch like she said, but skipped the “don’t chill” part and had to reheat it, which made it glossier and weirder.
The crust? Too brown on one side. Like Nan’s. She always overdid it — thought color meant flavor. She was wrong, but I still hear her when I pull pies from the oven.
I didn’t separate the egg whites cleanly. One yolk broke. I scooped it out with a spoon and pretended it never happened.
The Way It Happened in My Kitchen
I started the meringue while Mae was on the phone in the next room — laughing too loud at someone I don’t know yet.
I cracked the eggs one by one, and the sound of the shells brought back a morning I hadn’t meant to think about.
The day of the lemon cake collapse. Mae was 9. She tried to surprise me. The middle sank and we ate it anyway, standing at the counter, covered in sugar.
That smell — hot lemon, sugar pulling at the air — it’s stitched into me.
I beat the whites too long. Got distracted reading a text I shouldn’t have opened. They still peaked. Just barely.
When I spread the meringue, I let it touch the crust like Martha said. But I didn’t pile it high — I liked it thinner. More like a memory. Less like a shield.
It baked quick. Too quick. I turned away to rinse the bowl and when I turned back, it had gone golden in places that looked like burn.
Not burn. Just… intensity.
A Few Things I Learned
The smell of lemon, warm and close, can undo you.
And Martha’s pie? It holds. But not forever. The meringue droops by morning. The crust gets soft.
Still worth it.
What I Did With the Extras
There wasn’t much. Mae came in late and said, “Is that the cake I ruined?”
I laughed and said, “Sort of.”
We ate it cold.
No plates. Just forks and the kitchen light too bright above us.
Would I Make It Again?
Yes.
But only when I’m ready for the ache.
That’s As Much As I Remember
It was lemon that started it.
Not sweetness. Not nostalgia.
Just lemon.
Anyway. the fridge is quiet now. That helps.
If you want something with more crumble and less ache, I made a plum thing last July that hit differently. Still messy. Still good.
FAQs
Yep. that’s what i did. just stir it into the cornstarch mix so it thickens up again. no shame in the jar.
nope. mine was cracked and from the freezer aisle. still worked. Martha might flinch, but it’s fine.
it’ll still taste like sugar and air. don’t overthink it. call it rustic and move on.
ehh. not really. the texture goes weird. curd gets grainy, meringue gets sad.
Check out More Recipes:
Martha Stewart Lemon Meringue Pie
Description
Sweet, sharp, and just sentimental enough. Like that old voicemail I won’t delete.
Ingredients
Instructions
- I baked the crust first, pressed it into the dish and lined it with beans. Forgot the timer but caught the scent in time.
- Let it cool while I stirred the lemon curd with the water and cornstarch — heated gently, added butter, stirred until it felt thick enough.
- Poured it into the shell and let it set in the fridge while I beat the egg whites with sugar and salt. Stiff peaks took longer than expected — maybe I was too gentle.
- Piled the meringue on top, not too high, just enough to look like a memory. it at 350°F for 9 minutes or so — watched it brown, watched myself remember. Let it cool. Ate it late.