I Tried Martha Stewart’s Mac and Cheese, and I Doubled the Crust

It was already loud when I started.
Wind on the glass like a threat. The neighbor’s kid practicing trumpet. The oven fan wheezing like it had feelings.
And inside me? Louder. That scratchy ache behind the sternum that shows up when everything’s fine on paper, but nothing sits right in your chest.

So. Mac and cheese.

Her Highness’s version—the one with the breadcrumbs so golden they could have been dipped in the sun. I remembered it from that old Thanksgiving spread she did in Living. My grandmother dog-eared it and taped a note inside: “extra nutmeg!” (which I always ignore).

What the Original Looked Like

Martha’s mac is the kind you bring to a potluck if you want to be taken seriously. It’s buttered breadcrumbs, roux-thickened béchamel, sharp cheddar laced with Gruyère, and not a whisper of boxed nonsense. Everything done by feel—but also by ruler.

She calls for 6 slices of white bread, crusts off. She says “good” white bread like I’m not grabbing the squishiest loaf I can find on clearance.
And she tells you to whisk the sauce until it bubbles and thickens like a good girl who went to finishing school.

What I Did Differently

I didn’t tear the bread. I blitzed it. Too tired. Too cold.
Used sourdough ends that Mae said were “starting to smell weird.” I toasted them hard.
I doubled the crumb layer. Not out of rebellion. Out of spite.
(For what? No idea. Just needed more crunch than cushion.)

No Gruyère, either. Pecorino. Salty. Sharp. A little too much. Perfect.
I might’ve added more cheddar than she asked for. Might’ve not grated it all the way. Left some hunks in. Let them surprise me.

And I didn’t rinse the pasta.
Because I forgot.

The Way It Happened In My Kitchen

Butter burned a little in the pan. I told myself it was intentional.
Flour clumped. I whisked like I was trying to prove a point.
The milk didn’t want to mix—so I poured it anyway. Whisked harder.
Mae walked in halfway through and asked if cheese can expire. I said yes. Then checked the date and used it anyway.

The cheddar clung to the spoon like it had feelings.
The Pecorino snapped me back to a trip I never should’ve taken.
Sea salt from Provincetown—still using that tin. Still thinking about his laugh when it hit the roast potatoes just right. Still don’t regret it. Not really.

When I stirred the macaroni into the sauce, I tapped the dented Dutch oven out of habit. It thunked back like always. Same sound as the night I dropped it.
Same sound as the night I left him.

I pressed the breadcrumbs down with the back of the spoon like sealing a letter I’d never send.
Then I waited. The smell hit first. Sharp. Hot. Familiar in a way I didn’t trust.
Like something I’d missed and didn’t want to admit.

A Few Things I Learned

Bread crumbs should feel like armor.
Cheese doesn’t have to melt perfectly to work.
The loudest foods are sometimes the ones that quiet you down.

What I Did With the Extras

Ate it cold at 2am, over the sink. No regrets.
Mae took some in a Tupperware and texted “mum this SLAPS” with 3 cheese emojis.
There’s a corner left in the fridge. I’m pretending I don’t know it’s there.

Would I Make It Again?

Yes. But only when I need to chew through a feeling.

That’s As Much As I Remember

The wind stopped.
Or maybe I just couldn’t hear it anymore.
Hard to tell when the crumbs are still crackling.

If you want something messier, I did a version of Martha’s cheesy leek bake last winter that nearly broke the oven—but worth it.

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