The floor was cold. That kind of April cold that seeps up through the tile because you still haven’t sealed the back door. I wasn’t planning to bake. I was planning to sweep. Or call the oil guy. Or ignore the rest of the day entirely. But I opened the cupboard and saw the cocoa. Dutch-process. The fancy one. The one I bought during a good week, with no intention except hope.
Martha’s One Bowl Chocolate Cake wasn’t something I was craving. It just… showed up. Quietly. Like she does.
What The Original Looked Like
Her Highness calls it “one bowl,” but of course there’s more. There’s always more. Two pans, a wire rack, soft butter and oil, and a frosting that whispers “just do the damn dishes later.” It’s the kind of recipe that looks simple until you’re mid-sift and remember you don’t own matching cake tins.
Flour. Sugar. Cocoa. The usual suspects. But it’s the buttermilk and hot water combo that makes it feel like a dare. Add eggs, oil, vanilla. Mix it till smooth. The end, allegedly.
Even the frosting plays both sides. Cream cheese and crème fraîche. Chocolate and cocoa. It’s not decadent—it’s structured indulgence. Very Martha. Grace in control.
What I Did Differently
I didn’t have crème fraîche. I had sour cream, one spoon left in the tub. Close enough. The chocolate wasn’t bittersweet—it was a forgotten bar from Valentine’s Day. I scraped off the almond slivers and kept going.
And I didn’t trim the domes. Didn’t feel like it. One of them cracked a little, and I left it. Like a scar on purpose.
The Way It Happened in My Kitchen
I buttered the pans with my fingers. No brush, no grace. Mae wandered in just as I was sifting the cocoa and said, “Smells like winter break.” Which—god. It did. That year she tried to frost brownies with yogurt and cried when it slid off.
The batter looked too thin, so I panicked and added a spoonful of flour. Then doubted it. Then tasted it. Still good. Still dark and sticky and oddly warm from the water.
I dropped one pan trying to flip it out—caught it with my knee. A chunk broke off the side. I ate it. Standing there, crumbs in my palm, wondering if it was enough to count as lunch.
Frosting was chaos. The cream cheese was too cold, so it lumped. I beat it anyway. The mixer wheezed. The chocolate went in hot and thick and angry—made a swirl of shadows in the bowl. It reminded me of that marble cake I burnt last summer when the power flickered during the storm.
I layered it up with no crumb coat pause. No chill time. Just slathered it. Covered the crack with extra. Didn’t even bother with a knife—just the back of a spoon. The dented one.
A Few Things I Learned
The cake is better when you don’t try so hard.
The frosting forgives.
And hot water in batter still feels like breaking a rule.
What I Did With the Extras
I hid the last slice in the pantry. Behind the chickpeas. Mae found it anyway. Said, “Next time, less frosting.” I ignored her.
Would I Make It Again?
I already did. Two days later. Didn’t tell anyone.
That’s As Much As I Remember
It smelled like birthdays I forgot to plan. Like cocoa in old mugs. Like something soft surviving. I’d make it again when the air feels that empty.
If you want something messier, I did that chocolate pudding thing in January when the fridge broke. It held me longer than it should’ve.
FAQs
Yeah. but the frosting goes weird. not bad-weird, just… shy. wrap it tight. microwave it late one night and it’ll still taste like a hug.
not really. it disappears into the butter like a secret. but use orange juice if it feels safer. I did.
I didn’t either, once. mixed milk and lemon juice. let it sit. close enough. cake didn’t judge me. neither should you.
You can. but don’t. it’s like skipping the music at a party. you’ll eat it, sure. but it won’t dance.
I have. once. didn’t kill the cake. it came out a little flatter in mood, like it needed a nap. still chocolate. still worth the crumbs.
Check out More Recipes:
Martha Stewart One Bowl Chocolate Cake
Description
Dense, forgiving, and a little cracked—like most good things.
Ingredients
Frosting (mine was lumpy, but good):
Instructions
- Make the batter: dumped the flour, cocoa, sugar, baking soda, powder, and salt into the green pyrex. whisked it with a fork. cocoa dust hit the light. looked like something deserved to be forgiven. cracked in the eggs. poured the buttermilk too fast. the hot water felt wrong going in but smelled like something waking up. added the oil, vanilla. mixed until smooth-ish. didn’t overthink it. didn’t think at all.
- Prep the pans: buttered the cake tins with bare fingers. left smears on the counter. floured them like i meant it. tapped out the extra. probably didn’t get the edges right. didn’t care.
- Bake the cake: poured the batter into both pans unevenly. the left one got more. shoved them in the oven before i could second-guess it. thirty minutes. maybe more. forgot to set a timer. checked when the middle bounced back. one cracked. i liked that.
- Cool and panic: left the pans on the rack. burned my wrist flipping one. the other came out easy. peeled off the parchment like old wallpaper. one layer crumbled on the side. i ate that piece and didn’t apologize.
- Make the frosting: sifted the sugar and cocoa into a bowl that still smelled like cinnamon. beat the cream cheese and butter until the mixer complained. added the sugar slow. added the chocolate fast. the swirl was almost too pretty to ruin. added sour cream and didn’t look back.
- Frost and forget perfection: plopped the first layer down, wrong side up. smeared frosting over like spackle. added the second layer, more frosting, less grace. tried a crumb coat. gave up halfway. put the whole thing in the fridge while i stood at the sink and remembered birthdays that never happened.
- Serve however: pulled it out, finished the frosting with a spoon, not a knife. didn’t decorate. didn’t clean the plate. mae walked in, took a bite, said “it’s good.” that was enough.