It was too warm for October. that weird stretch of fall where the sun forgets itself and everything smells like a memory on the verge of going sour. I wasn’t planning on baking. I wasn’t planning on anything, really. the window was cracked. a leaf blew in. the dog barked once, then gave up.
I found the recipe folded behind a coupon for mulch. Martha Stewart’s Pumpkin Cheesecake. probably ripped from that old magazine that smells like dry glue and dust now. her handwriting, still elegant even when she prints. “for thanksgiving or sadness,” someone (me?) had written in the margin.
I didn’t need the cheesecake
I needed the vanilla.
What the Original Looked Like
Her Highness’s version is precise. like a satin tablecloth that you know better than to touch. 4 blocks of cream cheese. not three, not three and a half. four. everything soft. everything smooth. pumpkin stirred in like a secret. pie spice that doesn’t apologize. she even lets the oven do the silence—bakes it, then makes you leave it alone for two hours.
Like grief
In a springform pan.
I remembered her line about “don’t open the door.” I didn’t. not because of her—but because I couldn’t move.
What I Did Differently
Not much. I mean… the crust, maybe. I used ginger snaps because I didn’t have enough graham crackers and didn’t want to ask the neighbor again. I added a little extra vanilla. not on purpose. it poured faster than I meant, like it wanted out. I didn’t stop it.
I also didn’t have the energy to blend properly. no electric mixer. just a spoon. my wrist still hurts from stirring. but the lumps felt honest.
The Way It Happened in My Kitchen
The crust smelled burnt. it wasn’t. but it had that edge, the way things do when you’re already on edge yourself. I stirred the cheese and sugar in that green Pyrex I’ve had since college—the one with the chip on the lip that always makes me think of Mae’s baby teeth.
Funny the things you don’t throw away.
I added the pumpkin last. paused before the spice. that jar always smells like him. the cinnamon, the clove. spaghetti. he ruined spaghetti.
Anyway—
I forgot to smooth the top. it came out cratered. uneven. like the surface of a planet that’s been through something. which felt right.
A Few Things I Learned
The vanilla made me cry.
It smelled like christmas before the divorce.
Like sugar cookies and fake calm.
Like the year I still believed we could fix it.
It tasted good, though. I didn’t want it to. but it did.
What I Did With the Extras
Froze one slice. wrapped it in foil with shaky handwriting—don’t eat this unless you’re okay.
Mae ate the rest over two days. said it reminded her of the pie Nan used to overbake. I didn’t correct her. we were quiet. good quiet.
Would I Make It Again?
Probably. but not when it’s warm out. not when I’m alone.
That’s As Much As I Remember
The window creaked while it cooled.
Left the spoon in the sink.
And the smell lingered for hours.
Vanilla. sadness. something soft.
If soft food’s your thing, I did a cheesy potato mess last week you might like. different grief. still good.
FAQs
Yeah, but only if you’re okay with a softer bottom (crust, not personal). I wrapped a slice in foil and labeled it for emotional emergencies. still good.
Not in a bad way. it’s more… mellow. cozy. like fall whispered into a cheesecake. not like pie. softer.
You can, but why would you? the crust is the part that fights back. I used ginger snaps and it gave the whole thing teeth.
Use whatever. just know it might stick or crack. mine did anyway. still fed someone. still tasted like vanilla and a memory I didn’t ask for.
Somewhere in the middle. enough to call dessert, not enough to make your teeth hum. Mae added whipped cream, but she’s dramatic.
Check out More Recipes
- Martha Stewart Pizza Dough
- Martha Stewart Cream Cheese Pound Cake
- Martha Stewart Lemon Pound Cake
- Martha Stewart Vanilla Pound Cake Recipe
Martha Stewart Pumpkin Cheesecake
Description
Creamy, cracked, and stubborn—it held together better than I did.
Ingredients
Instructions
- Make the crust: Mix the ginger snap crumbs, sugar, and melted butter in a bowl until it looks like damp sand. Press it into the bottom of a springform pan with something flat—I used the bottom of a coffee mug. It’ll feel like it won’t hold. It will.
- Bake it briefly: Ten minutes at 350°F. Watch the edges. Mine smelled burnt but weren’t. The house filled with that spiced caramel smell that always makes me want to call someone I shouldn’t.
- Soften everything: Let the cream cheese sit out until it stops resisting. I stirred it with a spoon, not a mixer—took longer, but quieter. Add sugar, then flour. It should look smooth but feel a little stubborn.
- Add the eggs: One at a time. Don’t rush. I cracked them into the green Pyrex and forgot to stir one in right away. It still worked.
- Pour and prep: Scrape it all into the crust. Gently. No need to smooth unless you’re feeling steady. I wasn’t. So it swirled.
- Bake it low and slow: Start at 350°F, then immediately drop it to 300°F when it goes in. Bake 45 minutes and walk away. Don’t open the door. Don’t check. Trust it. That’s the hard part.
- Let it rest: When the timer ends, leave it in the oven. Off. Door shut. Two hours. No peeking. This is where the cracks are born or prevented—I didn’t mind mine.
- Cool and chill: Bring it out. Let it cool fully. Wrap it in something soft (I used a tea towel over plastic, like a weird comforter). Chill it four hours or overnight.
- Unmold and eat: Run a knife around the edge like you’re tracing an old letter. Lift the ring. Breathe. Slice when ready. Don’t serve it too cold. Let it taste like something remembered.