The oven was already hot.
Not for any good reason—just leftover heat from Mae roasting sweet potatoes for a salad she forgot to finish.
And I had the drippings. From a roast I made the night before that no one asked for.
Sometimes I make things just to see if I still can.
Her Highness’s Yorkshire pudding called to me like something from a memory I didn’t know I’d kept.
I hadn’t made it in years. Maybe not since before Mae was born. Maybe not since Sundays meant something.
But the batter was simple, and the silence was loud. So I started.
What the Original Looked Like
Martha’s version is exact.
Three eggs. A cup and a half of whole milk. Flour—sifted, of course. Salt. And the sacred thing: drippings.
She says to chill the batter for at least four hours, ideally overnight. She’s right. The cold helps it shock in the heat. Rise like a thing possessed.
She uses the pan from the Standing Rib Roast. Doesn’t say much about the roast itself—just implies it happened, like everyone always has one lying around.
But the pudding? It’s meant to puff. Meant to crisp.
Meant to carry whatever weight you didn’t say during dinner.
What I Did Differently
I didn’t measure the salt. Just pinched until it felt right.
Didn’t sift the flour, either. Couldn’t find the mesh thing. Didn’t look that hard.
The batter rested in the fridge—but only for three hours. I got impatient.
The drippings were from a different roast. Smaller. Less ceremonial. But they were mine.
I poured them into the old Dutch oven. The dent caught the light again.
The same dent from the night I dropped it after the fight.
Still cooks fine.
The Way It Happened in My Kitchen
The eggs went in fast. I whisked until my shoulder ached.
Milk followed. Then flour.
It looked lumpy. It smoothed out. Eventually.
Like most things.
I left the batter in the fridge and forgot about it. Mae asked if Yorkshire pudding was a dessert. I said no. She asked why it looks like one. I didn’t have an answer.
The beef fat hissed in the oven like a warning. I slid the batter in all at once. Didn’t tilt the pan. Didn’t breathe.
Twelve minutes at 450°F. Then I dropped the heat. Rotated the pan. Watched it swell.
It rose like something remembering itself.
It fell like something telling the truth.
A Few Things I Learned While It Baked
- Yorkshire pudding doesn’t need a feast. Just heat, eggs, and a reason.
- It smells like every roast dinner I wish had ended differently.
- Even when it collapses, it still tastes like intention.
What I Did With the Extras
Cut a corner, dipped it in cold gravy.
Left another piece for Mae.
She said it tasted like a pancake that got serious.
She wasn’t wrong.
Would I Make It Again?
Yes! But only when the oven’s already hot and the air feels thick with memory.
That’s As Much As I Remember
The rise was brief.
But while it lasted, the kitchen felt like somewhere I used to live.
If You Want Something Warmer, I Did A Leek Bake Last Winter That Cracked Open My Whole Stove—And Maybe A Little More.
FAQs
yes. butter’s fine. duck fat if you’re bold. but drippings hit different. they carry the roast with them.
it helps. gives it that dramatic rise. but if you’re in a rush, it’ll still work. maybe just a little flatter.
absolutely. you’ll get mini puddings with crispier edges. more bite, less fluff. good trade.
yes. always. don’t trust one that doesn’t. it should rise like a promise and fall like a memory.
make it anyway. serve it with jam, gravy, or nothing at all. yorkshire pudding doesn’t need a reason—it becomes one.
Check out More Recipes:
- Martha Stewart’s Chocolate Whoopie Pies
- Martha Stewart’s Mac and Cheese
- Martha Stewart’S String Bean Casserole
Martha Stewart Yorkshire Pudding
Description
Crispy, golden, and heavy with memory—this savory pudding didn’t need perfection. Just heat and history.
Ingredients
Instructions
- Whisk the eggs and salt until they’re frothy—and maybe a little emotional.
- Pour in the milk, let it blend in soft and slow.
- Stir in the flour, like you’re calming someone down after a long day.
- Let the batter chill in the fridge for 3 to 4 hours. longer is better, but life happens.
- Preheat the oven to 450°F (230°C). get it hot like memory.
- Heat the beef drippings in a deep pan or Dutch oven until they sizzle—like they’re trying to tell you something.
- Gently stir the chilled batter, then pour it in all at once. no swirling. no second-guessing.
- Bake for 12 minutes at full heat. don’t peek. let it rise without you.
- Lower the heat to 350°F (180°C), rotate the pan, and bake another 15 minutes until puffed and golden like it means it.
- Serve immediately. or don’t. even cold, it holds something real.