The pie tin was the old one. Green Pyrex. Little chip on the lip where I dropped it against the sink back when Clinton was still president and I was still someone’s girlfriend instead of someone’s mother. I hadn’t touched that tin in months, but the second I saw “Martha Stewart’s Spinach Quiche” on a folded page in the magazine pile, something tilted. I don’t know what I was reaching for—maybe just warmth. Maybe just the smell of shallots and something baked.
It was a soft day. Mist on the window. Mae’s voice on speakerphone telling me about a roommate who keeps stealing her yogurt. I didn’t have answers for that. But I had eggs. And butter. And some Gruyère I’d forgotten about from a night I was going to make fondue and didn’t.
So I made the damn quiche.
What The Original Looked Like
Her Highness’s version is precise. Two quiches. Eight eggs. Gruyère grated into perfect obedience. Shallots sautéed in one tablespoon of butter—no more, no less. She has you wilt the spinach in stages, like coaxing a secret out of a child. Then the egg mixture—half-and-half, nutmeg, salt, pepper—poured like silk into waiting crusts. The pie dough’s her classic, no-nonsense one. No cheese in it. No herbs. Just enough to hold the rest.
She says to rotate the pans halfway. Of course she does.
They’re beautiful, her quiches. Golden tops. Set centers. Nothing to question.
What I Did Differently
Only one pie plate. The other’s still holding dried citrus peels and wine corks from December.
Used frozen spinach—because I had it, and I wasn’t in the mood to rinse three bunches of grit. Let it thaw on a tea towel that still smells faintly of beach smoke from Provincetown.
Didn’t press it dry enough. Regret? Maybe. Maybe not.
I grated half Gruyère, half cheddar—because the Gruyère was short and the cheddar was familiar. I added a pinch more nutmeg than she’d allow. And I didn’t blind-bake the crust, which Her Highness would definitely scold me for.
But it held.
The Way It Happened in My Kitchen
I was halfway through whisking the eggs when I realized—last time I made this, Mae was still in middle school. She wore socks to bed and asked if spinach was poisonous raw. I’d laughed and said only if you’re a cartoon.
This time, the eggs hit the bowl and I barely looked.
Shallots browned fast—almost too fast. I stirred with the broken wooden spoon. The one with the handle burn from that broiler incident. The crust sagged in one corner but I told it, “It’s fine. We’re all a little uneven.”
Poured in the eggs too quick. Spilled a bit on the stove. Swore under my breath.
Baked it for 62 minutes because I forgot to set a timer and trusted the smell instead.
It was the right kind of firm. The kind that wobbles but holds you anyway.
What I Learned
Frozen spinach is like memory. Comes back dense, watery, needs pressing. But it still works.
More nutmeg than necessary feels like hope.
You can make one pie and still call it quicheS if it feeds more than just your mouth.
What I Did With the Extras
Had one slice with my feet up on the radiator. Wrapped two for Mae and froze the last wedge even though I never remember to thaw things right. Alfie begged for the crust edge. He got it.
Would I Make It Again?
Yes. If the house feels quiet enough. If I miss the smell of 1998.
That’s As Much As I Remember
It cooled slow. The fog outside cleared before the center set. I stood at the window with the dish in my hands and said, “Well, okay then.”
I don’t remember what I was sad about. Just that by the last bite, I wasn’t.
If you want something softer, I made Her Highness’s mushroom tart last winter. less egg, more earth. still did the trick.
FAQs
Sure. It won’t be as rich, but if that’s what you’ve got, go for it. Just maybe add an extra egg if it looks too thin.
Yeah, kind of. It tastes better fresh, but I’ve wrapped slices in foil and microwaved them a week later. Not ashamed.
Nope. I did half cheddar and no one complained. Use whatever feels melty and a little sharp.
You can. I’ve done it in a greased glass dish when I forgot the dough. It holds, just don’t skip the draining or it’ll weep.
Check out More Recipes:
Martha Stewart Spinach Quiche
Description
Soft, steady, and just a little uneven—like the day I made it.
Ingredients
Instructions
- Wilt the spinach: tossed the shallots in butter first. they hissed, softened. added the spinach in handfuls—wet, stubborn, still half-frozen in the middle. kept stirring. salt, pepper. it slumped eventually. left it in the pan while i found the colander.
- Drain the greens: dumped it into the strainer, used the back of a spoon, then my hand. hot. didn’t care. squeezed until it stopped dripping. left it sitting like that while i dealt with the crust.
- Build the base: scattered cheese in the pie shell like it was snowing. then the spinach. more cheese. no pattern. just instinct. crust tore on one side. patched it with dough from the edge. no one would see.
- Whisk the custard: cracked four eggs into the green bowl from college. added half-and-half, nutmeg, a messy pinch of salt, some black pepper. whisked with a fork. fast, then slower. poured it in one confident stream.
- Bake and wait: slid it into the oven at 350. no timer. trusted my nose. after a while, it puffed at the edges. golden in places. a little too wobbly in the center but i shut the oven off and let it sit there. cooling like a memory.
- Serve, sort of: ate a slice over the sink. then another on a warm plate. alfie got a bite. mae would’ve said “needs hot sauce” but she wasn’t there. quiet is a kind of seasoning too.