It started with the knife.
The dull one. The one I should’ve sharpened weeks ago—the one with the crack in the handle that pinches your thumb if you grip too hard. I was slicing rhubarb, diagonally, like she said. Sharp diagonals. Clean edges. Mine were… not that.
I wasn’t planning to bake. Not really. I just saw the rhubarb. Long, ruby stalks at the market, stacked like firewood. And something in me said: you need this. Not the cake. The color.
It reminded me of Mae’s cheeks after the beach. And of a lipstick I bought once, wore once, then lost under the passenger seat of his car. I think it melted.
What The Original Looked Like
Her Highness’s version is theater. The rhubarb’s supposed to glaze into a sunset. The crumb topping is precise, like pressed linen. And the orange? Just enough to feel like someone gently nudged your taste buds.
It’s a recipe that assumes you’ve got clean fingernails and fresh zest. That you measure. That you don’t flinch when sugar caramelizes at the edges and dares you to pretend it’s not burning.
Martha’s cake stands tall. Mine slouched.
What I Did Differently
First—no orange. I thought I had one. Turned out to be a sad, dried-out tangerine from Mae’s lunchbox. So I used lemon. Half-zested. Probably too much.
Second—I didn’t wait long enough for the rhubarb to sit with the sugar. Tossed it once, maybe twice. Impatient. Blame the weather.
And the sour cream? I was short. Added a spoon of yogurt to fill the cup. It felt wrong. It worked anyway.
The Way It Happened in My Kitchen
I melted the butter in the microwave, forgot it, then reheated it again when it turned cloudy. The crumb mixture looked like beach sand after a rain. Good enough.
Butter in the pan. Rhubarb layered like shingles on a leaky roof. They slipped around. I didn’t care. There’s still sugar stuck under my nails from pressing them down.
The batter came together thick, slow, reluctant. Mae walked in mid-whisk, asked if it was the “strawberry pie thing.” I said no. She said good.
It baked louder than I expected. Cracked once near the edge. I stared at it like it was talking to me.
When it came time to flip it, I hesitated. That pause where you wonder if the whole damn thing’s going to fall apart and remind you of every other thing that did. But it didn’t.
It held.
A Few Things I Learned
Rhubarb doesn’t care about your plans. It bleeds, it slips, it burns at the tips. But it shows up bright where it counts.
You can under-zest and over-stir and still get something that tastes like effort.
And even if the cake’s crooked—it’s still a cake. Still warm. Still sweet. Still yours.
What I Did With the Extras
Mae said she didn’t like it. Then ate two slices standing up. I wrapped the last piece in foil, shoved it into the fridge, and ate it cold the next morning with the door still open.
Would I Make It Again?
Probably. On a day I feel uneven.
That’s As Much As I Remember
The butter hardened on the counter. The crumbs stuck to the cooling rack. The house smelled like vanilla and rain. It helped.
If you’re after something messier, I did a cherry clafoutis once that looked like a bruise but tasted like forgiveness.
FAQs
yeah, just don’t thaw it all the way or it’ll get weepy. toss it straight in while it’s still stubborn.
i didn’t either. used a spoonful of yogurt to fake it and nobody complained. crème fraîche might make it fancy, but also might not be worth the grocery trip.
only if you want the pretty part on top. i’ve eaten it straight from the pan, no regrets. upside-down is a mood, not a mandate.
Depends on the rhubarb. mine was sharp and loud, so the sugar helped. if yours is mellow, you could probably dial it back a bit. or not. live a little.
ice cream if you’ve got it. whipped cream if you feel generous. a spoon, over the sink, is also valid. mae swiped hers with peanut butter once. i’m still recovering.
Check out More Recipes:
Martha Stewart Upside-Down Rhubarb Cake
Description
Soft edges, lemon tang, a little cracked—but it stayed together. Like me. That week.
Ingredients
Instructions
- Make the crumb topping: melted the butter (twice, thanks to forgetting). stirred in the flour, sugar, and salt until it looked like wet sand. poked it once with a spoon. left it alone.
- Prep the pan: buttered the cake tin like it owed me rent. dropped cold pats of butter across the bottom. didn’t space them evenly. didn’t care.
- Layer the rhubarb: sliced it on the diagonal—some sharp, some sad. tossed it with sugar and forgot to wait the full two minutes. dumped it into the pan. pressed it down with my palm like that would help. it didn’t. still slippery.
- Mix the batter: beat the butter and sugar until they looked pale and tired. added lemon zest, because i had no orange, and said sorry out loud. eggs in, one by one. then flour and sour cream, back and forth, like a conversation that won’t end. batter got thick. stubborn. perfect.
- Assemble the cake: spread the batter over the rhubarb, tried not to drag it around too much. smoothed the top with a bent spoon. scattered the crumb topping like it was birdseed. felt unsure.
- Bake it: into the oven. 350°F. waited. checked too soon. waited again. smelled like the corner of a summer pie. pulled it at 58 minutes. top bounced back. middle looked like a memory.
- Cool and flip: let it sit while the butter hardened on the counter. ran a knife around the edge like i was apologizing. flipped it onto a rack with one breath held. it came out. nearly clean. not perfect. mine.