The flour hit the counter like ash.
Not gently. Not soft. Just—dust, then silence.
I hadn’t made a red velvet cake in… ten years? Twelve?
Back when Mae was still little enough to lick the beaters without me worrying about salmonella.
Back before the fire alarm meant more than just burnt sugar.
I didn’t plan this one.
Saw the printout tucked behind a grocery list from 2018.
The kind of day where everything you reach for reminds you of something else.
Martha’s recipe for Red Velvet Chocolate Cake, bold and unapologetic. Flour, oil, eggs, food coloring like a dare.
And I thought—maybe I could make something sweet without remembering the bitterness.
I was wrong.
But I made it anyway.
What the Original Looked Like
Her Highness doesn’t flinch. This one’s textbook:
three cups of cake flour, a tight dose of cocoa, that sneaky vinegar to punch the red awake.
Creamed butter, whipped whites, buttermilk on cue.
A method like choreography—measured, timed, gleaming bowls in a perfect kitchen.
Even the frosting’s obedient: full-fat cream cheese, softened butter, vanilla like a memory you want to keep soft.
Five cups of sugar. That’s not frosting. That’s surrender.
It’s a beautiful cake. Hers is always beautiful.
But it doesn’t ache the way mine did.
What I Did Differently
I didn’t have buttermilk.
I stirred Greek yogurt and milk together in a chipped Pyrex with a crack that spidered just slightly when I tapped it.
Didn’t separate the eggs, either. I couldn’t be bothered—everything in one bowl, all at once, like I wanted it over before I felt too much.
I used the red food gel I found in the back of the baking drawer—might’ve expired.
Didn’t matter. Still stained the counter. Still looked like something you can’t clean up all the way.
The Way It Happened in My Kitchen
I started it too late.
Rain was whispering sideways against the window.
Mae had called earlier. Not about cake. Just… checking. But her voice still carried the question: “Are you okay?”
I said yes.
Then I preheated the oven.
Mixed the flour with salt I didn’t measure.
The cocoa clumped—I didn’t sift. Didn’t care.
When the sugar met the butter, something smelled like birthdays we didn’t celebrate anymore.
I used the old handheld mixer. The one that groans.
Folded the batter with the plastic spoon that still smells faintly of that cinnamon incident.
(The one he swore made the sauce taste “warmer.” The one I threw across the kitchen.)
And when the batter turned red—truly red, loud red—I stopped.
It looked like it remembered something too.
I poured it into pans that didn’t match and set them side by side, like two versions of me I didn’t recognize.
I scraped the bowl clean with my finger.
It tasted… quiet.
A Few Things I Learned
Red velvet isn’t really about chocolate.
It’s about the pause after you taste it.
The moment where your mouth says “sweet,” but your mind says “what was that?”
I needed that moment. Needed something I couldn’t name.
Also—don’t overbake it. It’ll forgive you once. Not twice.
What I Did With the Extras
There weren’t really “extras.”
I stood in the kitchen and ate the frosting off the knife.
Frosted the cake directly on the cooling rack, no ceremony.
Mae would’ve laughed if she saw. Or said, “Mum, you good?”
I would’ve said yes again. Maybe meant it this time.
Would I Make It Again?
Yeah.
Maybe next time with the eggs separated. Maybe not.
That’s As Much As I Remember
The rain had stopped when I finished.
Or maybe I just stopped hearing it.
The kitchen smelled like vanilla and heat.
The kind that lingers.
I wrapped the cake in foil.
Didn’t label it.
Didn’t need to.
If you want something softer and more quiet, I made a chocolate tart last winter that nearly undid me. different sweet. different weight.
FAQs
You Can, But Then It’S Just A Chocolate Cake In A Red Velvet Costume. Still Good. Just Not Loud.
Not Really. Just A Whisper Of It. Like Chocolate Walked Past The Bowl And Waved.
Yeah, I’Ve Done It. It’S A Little Heavier, But If The Mood’S Already Heavy—Why Not Match It?
Yes. Aggressively So. But If You Eat It Cold The Next Day, It Mellows. Like Most Of Us.
Yep. Wrap It Tight. Just Don’T Forget It’S There. It Deserves To Be Remembered.
Check out More Recipes:
Martha Stewart Red Velvet Chocolate Cake
Description
Creamy, Sweet, And A Little Unresolved—Like Most Things I Bake Alone.
Ingredients
Frosting:
Instructions
- Preheat the oven: Preheat to 350°F (177°C). I used the middle rack—felt safer. Grease two 9-inch (23cm) cake pans. I skipped the parchment, regretted it later. If you want those rich chocolate-red layers to release clean, line them first, then grease again.
- Mix dry ingredients: In a large bowl, whisk together the cake flour, baking soda, cocoa powder, and salt. I didn’t sift. The cocoa clumped a little. It still smelled warm and deep—like an old-fashioned velvet cake recipe you’d find on a handwritten card.
- Cream butter and sugar: Use a stand or handheld mixer to beat the butter and granulated sugar on medium-high for about a minute. It should look pale and messy. Scrape the bowl down, especially if you’re using an older mixer like mine that whines a bit on cold mornings.
- Add wet ingredients: Add in the oil, all four eggs (I didn’t separate—Her Highness can sue me), vanilla extract, and vinegar. Beat for 2 minutes until everything’s glossy and slightly stubborn. It should smell like birthdays and a little like rebellion.
- Combine dry ingredients with buttermilk: On low speed, mix in the dry ingredients in 2–3 rounds, alternating with the buttermilk—or in my case, a yogurt-and-milk stand-in. Add the red food coloring until the batter turns dramatic and impossible to ignore. This is when it starts feeling like a real red velvet chocolate cake.
- (Optional) Whisk egg whites: The original calls for beating whites to stiff peaks and folding them in. I skipped this step. If you’re following Martha’s full method, whisk the whites separately in a clean bowl and gently fold them in. It makes the texture fluffier, airier. Mine was denser—moist, almost brownie-like.
- Bake the cakes: Pour the batter evenly into your prepared pans. Bake for 30–32 minutes until the tops spring back when touched and a toothpick comes out mostly clean. Mine took closer to 29—might’ve been the old oven or the rain. Cool completely in the pans on a wire rack before frosting. The layers will firm up. The house will smell like sugar and something sweet you almost forgot.