The crust was too cold and my hands were too warm. The kind of mismatch that happens when you’re not really present. I’d meant to clean the fridge. Instead, I found a jar of cloves I forgot I owned and a can of pumpkin I bought last November when I thought I might host.
Outside it was that kind of late October air that doesn’t ask permission—cold like a warning, not a breeze. I wasn’t planning pie. But the smell of cinnamon makes promises my grief still keeps. So I reached for Her Highness’s version. The one with evaporated milk and the patient stir.
What the Original Looked Like
Martha’s pumpkin pie is well-behaved. Measured. Assured.
Light brown sugar for softness, cornstarch to keep it together, cloves just enough to whisper but not shout. Three eggs, a proper glaze, a dough that chills obediently and crimps like a magazine cover. She brushes the crust with a mixture of cream and egg like it deserves to be adored.
It’s classic. It’s hers. It smells like Thanksgiving and control.
What I Did Differently
I didn’t chill the dough long enough.
I used the last of the sea salt from Provincetown instead of table salt—don’t ask why, it just felt better. I added more ginger because the jar slipped and dumped. I didn’t stop it.
Also—I didn’t have evaporated milk. I used cream and a splash of water. Not out of rebellion. Just… inertia.
The Way It Happened in My Kitchen
I mixed the filling in the green Pyrex bowl from college. The one with the tiny chip I keep turning away from the camera when I take photos I never post. Mae used to love that bowl when she was small. Said it looked like jelly.
Anyway.
The cloves hit the air and I saw my grandmother’s apron again. The stiff white one with hand-sewn cherries. She used to press the crust in with her knuckles, not a fork. Always too dry. Always insisted it wasn’t.
I poured the filling into the shell with a kind of reverence I didn’t mean to feel. Tapped the side of the pie dish like it was a ritual. Like it would make the surface smooth itself out.
And the oven door creaked when I opened it, like it remembered too.
It baked in two waves—first hot, then slower. That part I followed. Her Highness knows how to treat custard. But I hovered like I didn’t trust it. Mae came into the kitchen asking if we had any whipped cream. I said no. She rolled her eyes.
“Then what’s the point?”
I didn’t answer.
A Few Things I Learned
Cloves carry more memory than cinnamon.
Cream works if you stir like you mean it.
And pie, even when cracked down the middle, can still feel like a reunion.
What I Did With the Extras
Mae scraped the edge of the crust with a spoon. Just the edge. Said the filling was “fine” but the crust was better.
I had a slice cold the next morning. Standing barefoot. The pie plate still warm from memory.
Would I Make It Again?
I don’t know. Maybe. If I miss her. If I need to argue with a ghost.
That’s As Much As I Remember
The kitchen still smelled like cloves that night.
Not sweet. Not soft. Just… sharp enough to keep you awake.
If you want something messier, I did a version of Her Highness’s apple tart last fall that overflowed in the oven. she would’ve disapproved. I didn’t care.
FAQs
Yep. that’s what i used. fresh is fine if you’re feeling ambitious, but i wasn’t.
Technically yes. emotionally? depends how your day’s going. mine only got 10 minutes and still held together. mostly.
Sweet, but not clingy. the spices keep it grounded. mae said it tasted “grown-up.”
You can—but it won’t smell like october. that’s the part that gets in your nose and stays there.
We had slices for two days. after that, it got weird. not bad-weird. just… fridge-weird.
Check out More Recipes
- Martha Stewart Lasagna Recipe
- Martha Stewart Vegetable Lasagna
- Martha Stewart Butternut Squash Lasagna
- Martha Stewart Potato Salad
Martha Stewart Pumpkin Pie Recipe
Description
Creamy, cracked, and a little haunted—like all the good ones.
Ingredients
Instructions
- Shape the Crust: Cold dough. Warm hands. not ideal. rolled it anyway—between wax paper because i couldn’t find the plastic wrap. pressed it into the pie dish like I meant it. crimped the edge with a fork, then my fingers. chilled it for ten minutes. maybe less.
- Mix the Memory In: Brown sugar, cornstarch, salt, ginger, cinnamon, cloves. soft clumps. stirred with the same old wooden spoon i used for Mae’s cake batter once. it still smells like vanilla if you get close.
- Make It Liquid: Pumpkin in first. Then eggs. all three. stirred slow. cream and a little water because i forgot the milk. didn’t matter. it came together. looked like sunset before it sets.
- Paint the Edges: one egg. a splash of cream. whisked with a bent fork. brushed it on with the pastry brush that’s missing half its bristles. still works. barely.
- Fill and Bake: poured it in like i was afraid to spill. oven already hot—425°. ten minutes. then dropped it to 350° and waited. smelled like cinnamon and something older.
- Cool and Quiet: left it on the rack. no fan. no words. crust cracked a little. good.