It smelled like Christmas morning and burnt regrets. The kind of day where you find yourself holding butter in both hands and not remembering why. I wasn’t going to bake. I swear. But the fridge was humming too loud and the house felt brittle in that late-winter way—too quiet, too sharp.
There was bacon from Tuesday. Cream I’d bought for a pie that never happened. And a dog-eared page in that old Martha book, the one with the coffee stain shaped like Vermont. Her Lorraine quiche. The one with the crisp edges and precise bacon geometry. I started grating my teeth before I even got the dough out.
What the Original Looked Like
Her Highness’s version is textbook French restraint—clean edges, exact ratios, no room for ghosts. You make a tart shell so thin you can see your worries through it, then blind bake it like you’ve got time to care. Bacon rendered just-so, cream thick enough to remember its origins. Eggs, salt, pepper. No cheese. Of course not. She’s above that here.
It’s the kind of dish that looks like it judges you if your table’s uneven. Which mine is. One leg’s been wobbling since Mae used it for a fort and forgot the rule about leaning.
What I Did Differently (Don’t Tell Her)
I didn’t chill the dough long enough. It tore. I patched it with the soft side of a cuss word and pressed harder.
I used pre-sliced bacon—none of that “slab” business. I browned it in the old skillet with the loose handle and it hissed like it knew better. I added nutmeg. Not a lot. Just a whisper. I don’t know if Martha would be furious or impressed. Probably both.
And I might’ve… okay, I added a handful of grated Gruyère. I needed warmth more than fidelity.
The Way It Happened in My Kitchen
The dough slumped into the pan like it had given up. I didn’t blame it.
The oven creaked. The wind knocked something off the porch—I didn’t look.
The bacon went in early. I stirred it too often. Dad used to say leave it alone, let it brown. He crushed garlic with his fist, never bacon, but still.
Mae called mid-whisk to ask if I still had her lemon zester. The one shaped like a fish. I don’t. I lied. I do.
The eggs went in whole. I meant to beat them first. I forgot. Started again.
I scraped the bottom of the bowl with that plastic spoon—the melted one from the fire. Still smells like sugar and fear.
Poured it all in. Cream, eggs, nutmeg, Gruyère. Bacon last. Like a confession.
The quiche puffed up like it had something to prove. I let it cool on the counter next to the magnet from Provincetown that never sits straight.
What I Learned by Accident
Letting it sit matters. It sets. It softens. It quiets.
It tasted less like breakfast, more like remembering something slowly.
And the crust… the crust was too brown in one spot but it held.
It held. Like I did. Just barely.
What I Did With the Extras
I cut Mae a slice and mailed it in a foil-lined box I know will leak. She’ll text me about it in four days. “Mum, it still smells like bacon. Thanks?”
I ate mine cold with a spoon. At the counter. No plate.
Would I Make It Again?
Only when I need to remember that mess and grace can share the same bite.
That’s As Much As I Remember
The house didn’t feel brittle by the end. Just warm.
And the wobble in the table? Still there. But the slice sat fine.
If soft food’s your thing, I did a cheesy potato mess last week you might like. Mae said it tasted like forgiveness. I believed her.
FAQs
Yes. add what makes you feel held. i did gruyère. parmesan works. cheddar’s a little wild, but i’ve done it.
I once used half-and-half and crossed my fingers. it worked. thinner, but still rich. not Her Highness-approved, but fine by me.
Nah. i used the regular stuff and no one called the food police. just cook it until it smells like something you want to keep.
Yes. but it gets a little weepy when it thaws. like me on sunday mornings. still edible though.
Check out More Recipes:
- Martha Stewart Onion Rings
- Martha Stewart Zucchini Muffins
- Martha Stewart Zucchini Fritters
- Martha Stewart’S Yorkshire Pudding
Martha Stewart Lorraine Quiche
Description
Made it because the wind wouldn’t shut up. Stayed for the bacon.
Ingredients
Instructions
- Make the dough: floured the counter like i was mad at it. rolled the dough too thin, patched the tears with cold fingers and a quiet swear. pressed it into the tart pan, edges cracking like old paint. froze it while the oven preheated and i stared out the window too long.
- Blind bake the crust: lined it with parchment, filled it with beans i’ve had since the bush administration. baked until the edges felt firm-ish. pulled the paper, sent a few beans flying. baked it bare until golden around the rim. let it cool. forgot about it for a minute.
- Cook the bacon: tossed strips into the skillet that still smells like thanksgiving. medium heat, nothing fancy. stirred too often. they browned anyway. drained on a towel with last week’s spaghetti stain. left the pan out—i always do.
- Mix the custard: cracked eggs into the green bowl with the chip. added cream, salt, pepper. whisked like it owed me rent. added a dash of nutmeg. just felt right. mae’s voice in my head—“you always do that.”
- Assemble the quiche: poured the custard into the cooled shell. scattered bacon like breadcrumbs in a fairy tale. added cheese without looking. the oven was still hot. i took it as a sign.
- Bake and wait: slid it in. watched it puff. smelled like sundays that didn’t hurt. pulled it when it jiggled just barely. let it sit while the light changed.