I wasn’t planning dessert.
I wasn’t planning anything, really—not even dinner. The peaches were too soft. The air felt like syrup. My head, heavier than the heat outside. I opened the fridge looking for silence. Found fruit on the edge instead.
I remembered Her Highness’s peach crumble recipe—crease in the old magazine, butterprint smeared on the corner. My grandmother had circled it, once. Wrote “nectarines?” in shaky pen. I don’t think she ever made it. I didn’t, either. Until that day.
It didn’t feel like baking.
It felt like using something up before it left me.
What the Original Recipe Looked Like
Martha’s version is clean. Predictable. No-nonsense fruit math.
Two pounds of peaches, sliced into neat half-inch wedges.
¾ cup sugar, white, exact.
Lemon juice, cornstarch, salt—a tidy trio.
Then the topping: soft butter, brown sugar, flour, salt. Mix with a machine. Form perfect, even crumbs. Bake until bubbling, golden, composed.
It’s a recipe that assumes the fruit is obedient. The cook, too.
What I Did Differently
I didn’t measure the peaches. Just cut what I had—soft ones, bruised and begging.
Used brown sugar for the filling. Felt deeper. More right.
Forgot the cornstarch. Realized halfway through baking. Laughed. Swore a little.
Added cinnamon even though she doesn’t call for it. My ex hated cinnamon in fruit. That made me want it more.
The topping clumped. I let it.
The Way It Happened in My Kitchen
I peeled the fruit with my thumbs. No knife. No neatness.
Juice dripped down my wrist and I didn’t bother wiping it off.
The bowl I used was too shallow, like so many things lately.
Mae walked in, said, “That smells like late summer.” Then left.
I mashed the butter into the sugar with my hands. Said I wouldn’t. Did anyway.
Flour clouded up. Landed on the dog’s ear.
I didn’t laugh—but I smiled.
The dish went into the oven like a promise I didn’t fully mean.
Forty-five minutes later, it bubbled up and cracked open like something forgiven.
What I Learned
If the peaches are ready, you don’t need to be.
The topping doesn’t have to be even. Or polite.
And burnt edges taste like conviction.
What I Did With the Extras
Ate it from the pan, standing at the stove.
Mae came back later, finished the rest cold with her fingers.
Said nothing. Just tapped the dish with her nail.
We both knew that meant “make it again.”
Would I Make It Again?
Yes.
But only on the kind of day that starts with silence and ends with sugar on your hands.
FAQs
yep. I’ve done it. they’re a little firmer, a little sassier. works just fine.
nope. I didn’t. the skins curl and get soft. if someone complains, hand them a paring knife and tell them to help next time.
then you get juicy crumble. mine was practically a cobbler. nobody complained.
sure. just know the topping softens a bit in the fridge. reheat it in the oven if you want the crunch back.
need? no. want? maybe. sometimes it just wants cream. sometimes it wants nothing but a spoon and a quiet room.
Check out More Recipes:
Martha Stewart Peach Crumble
Description
Sticky, Soft, And Just A Little Wrong In The Best Way.
Ingredients
Filling:
Topping:
Instructions
- Preheat the oven: Turn the dial to 190°C / 375°F and let the oven hum while you deal with the peaches. Mine took forever to preheat. I didn’t mind. Gave me time to second-guess everything, then do it anyway.
- Prepare the filling: In a big bowl that barely held them, toss in about 2 lbs of peaches, sliced too casually, ¾ cup brown sugar, a splash of lemon juice, a pinch of salt, and if you remember, 4 teaspoons of cornstarch (I didn’t—still turned out fine). The juice started pooling before I even stirred. That’s how ripe they were. Pour everything into an 8-inch baking dish, the kind with a chip in the corner you never notice until you wash it.
- Make the topping: In another bowl, beat 6 tablespoons soft butter with ¼ cup brown sugar until it looks like something between a paste and a memory. I used a spoon. You can use a mixer if you’ve got one and the energy. Add 1 cup flour and ½ teaspoon salt, then use your hands—yes, your hands—to crumble it all until it feels like clumps of wet sand pretending to be dessert.
- Assemble and bake: Scatter the topping over the peaches. Some bits will be huge. Some won’t stick. Don’t fix it. Just trust the oven. Bake for 40 to 50 minutes, until the fruit is bubbling like it’s mad at you and the top turns the color of old postcards. If it starts browning too fast, toss some foil on top like a shrug. I didn’t bother. It came out fine.
- Cool and serve: Let it sit at least 20 minutes before digging in, unless you’re dealing with something that can only be fixed by hot fruit and sugar. Spoon it up warm, maybe with cream, maybe without. Mae added ice cream. I just used a fork and a quiet room.