I Tried Martha Stewart’s Mile High Apple Pie, and the Crust Still Split

I Tried Martha Stewart’s Mile High Apple Pie, and the Crust Still Split
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Martha Stewart Mile High Apple Pie
Leave a Comment on I Tried Martha Stewart’s Mile High Apple Pie, and the Crust Still Split

the apples were bruised.
I used them anyway.

I wasn’t planning to make this. but the kitchen was cold and the fruit bowl was sagging.
and something about slicing apples into a pile that high felt like building a small tower of intention.
or maybe protection.

Her Highness calls it Mile High Apple Pie.
I call it the thing I bake when I need the house to smell like I meant to stay.

What the Original Looked Like

Martha’s version is tall. structured. crisp.
she uses deep-dish pâte brisée like it’s armor.
she piles the apples high—sliced thin, tossed in cinnamon and sugar. she vents with precision. brushes with yolk.
sprinkles just enough sugar to catch the light.

her crust stays golden. her apples stay firm. her instructions don’t leave room for doubt.
or grief.
or improvisation.

mine does.

What I Did Differently

i didn’t have 14 apples. I had 11.
some too soft. one starting to wrinkle.
I added nutmeg even though she didn’t ask for it.

the dough was cold, but not rested.
and I forgot to brush off the flour.

I cut the vents with a butter knife.
not for style—just because it was the closest thing on the counter.
and I didn’t measure the sugar.
I just poured until it felt right.

The Way It Happened in My Kitchen

the apples peeled easy.
the cores were stubborn.
I sliced them thin until my wrist ached, then thicker because I got tired.
tossed them in lemon, sugar, cinnamon, flour—hands deep in it, not a spoon in sight.

rolled the crust out on the scratched butcher block.
pressed it into the pie plate with palms that hadn’t baked in a while.

I piled the apples high. too high.
they wobbled.
I pressed them down gently, like they needed reassurance.

laid the top crust like a blanket with holes.
tucked the edges. crimped them. sort of.
cut vents in a circle, then changed my mind halfway.

brushed it with egg yolk like I was covering up a secret.
sugar sprinkled like forgiveness.

baked it hot, then low.
the juices bubbled out the sides.
the crust browned uneven.
the middle sank a little.
but it held.
mostly.

A Few Things I Learned While It Baked

you can’t pile something high and expect it not to fall a little.
venting helps, but it won’t fix what’s underneath.
and apples—like people—shrink when they’re under heat for too long.

What I Did With the Extras

there weren’t many.
Mae took a slice and said,
“it tastes like the house used to.”
then she left the crust on the plate.
that’s how I knew she meant it.

Would I Make It Again?

yes.
on a day when I want to remember how the kitchen used to smell.
when the oven was the only thing that kept the room warm.

That’s As Much As I Remember

I saved the last slice this time.
didn’t eat it.
just kept it there.
just in case.

this reminded me of the pie I made the week dad died. too much cinnamon. not enough words.

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