the powdered sugar caught in the radiator heat like smoke.
not real smoke—just that dry floaty feeling like you’ve walked into a room where something happened. something sweet. something over.
i wasn’t planning to make a cake. especially not that cake. her Highness’s Yule Log Cake—the one with fondant and garnish and history.
but it was snowing too early this year, and mae didn’t come home for christmas. not really.
she sent a text. i’m fine, mum. i’ll call later.
and then i was elbow-deep in cocoa dust and six egg yolks and grief i didn’t know had a shape.
What The Original Looked Like
martha’s version is immaculate.
two sheet cakes, light as sighs. caramel cream inside like a whisper. fondant rolled with wood-grain texture and cocoa snow on top. pine needles. chocolate pinecones.
it’s not a cake. it’s a scene.
her version tastes like someone else’s memory. one with matching china and a crackling fire that never needed stoking.
she builds it like a ritual—eggs separated with surgical calm. parchment lined like everything else in her life.
What I Did Differently (And Why I’m Not Sorry)
i didn’t roll the fondant thin enough.
i skipped the pine needles. i told myself it was because i didn’t want to eat twigs, but really? i couldn’t find the damn bag in the pantry and i didn’t want to open the basement freezer. the last of dad’s fish is in there. i think.
i used canned caramel. stirred in a little sea salt from provincetown. that tin still makes me ache.
i didn’t imprint the fondant with fake woodgrain. i scratched it with a fork. it worked. it didn’t. it worked enough.
The Way It Happened In My Kitchen
the sponge baked too fast. or maybe i folded too much.
when i flipped it out, it cracked straight across like a bad memory.
i thought of mae’s lemon cake. the one that caved in. the one we ate with our fingers standing barefoot on flour.
i spread the caramel too close to the edges. i knew better.
i rolled it anyway. the whole thing looked like a failed log and a successful tantrum.
i whispered “merry christmas” into the pan.
nobody heard. except maybe the dog.
maybe the dented dutch oven. i tapped it. out of habit.
(the crack runs like a scar through the enamel. like mine.)
A Few Things I Learned
fondant tastes like nothing.
but it feels like effort.
it holds the shape of a holiday you meant to have.
the cocoa powder gets in your nose.
the caramel melts things inside you that you forgot were still frozen.
the cake slices quiet. the silence after the first cut is the loudest part.
What I Did With the Extras
i left half on the counter.
ate the rest cold. no fork.
mae texted back two days later. said “that cake looked intense.”
i said “not as intense as the mess.”
she sent a heart. blue, not red. don’t know what that means.
Would I Make It Again?
probably.
not for the cake.
for the ache.
That’s As Much As I Remember
i didn’t hear carols this year.
just the hum of the oven. and my own breath, too close to the window.
if i make it again, it won’t be for christmas.
maybe for may. maybe for nothing.
FAQs
eh. not really. but it looks like you tried. which sometimes is the point.
Absolutely. leave it naked. let the caramel show. martha might side-eye you but i’ll high five you.
Mine did. you’ll survive. just patch it, dust it, and pretend it was rustic on purpose. it still slices soft.
Yes. but i wouldn’t. the fondant gets weird and the cake gets sad. better to just eat it over three days like a breakup album.
Check out More Recipes:
Martha Stewart Yule Log Cake
Description
It cracked down the middle and so did I. Still sweet enough. Still soft enough.
Ingredients
Instructions
- Make the batter: cracked six eggs like promises. separated the whites from the yolks like a breakup you saw coming. whipped the yolks until they blushed. whites until they stood proud. folded it all together like i was trying to keep something from falling apart. sifted cocoa and flour in slow, like dust from the attic.
- Bake the cake: poured the batter into two pans lined like beds i don’t sleep in anymore. smoothed it down with the back of a spoon i bent on thanksgiving. baked it too long, maybe. the top sprang back but the corners curled. smelled like burnt sugar and effort.
- Cool and prep the layers: flipped the cakes out like i meant it. peeled the parchment like old wallpaper. tried not to tear it. failed. let them cool while i stared out the window. thought about texting mae. didn’t.
- Fill and roll: slathered caramel too thick, like forgiveness. left a border like she told me to, but the edges still wept. rolled it tight, from short end to memory. it cracked. of course it cracked. wrapped it in a towel that smelled like cinnamon and one bad winter.
- Chill and forget: shoved it in the fridge. forgot it was there. remembered at 1am. left it in longer. didn’t matter.
- Roll the fondant: dusted the counter like snow that never settles. rolled it out too thick. scratched it with a fork because i couldn’t find the texture mat and also because i didn’t care. dusted it with cocoa like i was hiding something.
- Cover the cake: draped the fondant like a blanket over a body. smoothed it down with my hands. hands that still shake sometimes. trimmed the edges with kitchen scissors. one side was crooked. left it.
- Serve: didn’t garnish. didn’t need to.