I Tried Martha Stewart’s Zucchini Muffins. I Didn’t Expect to Cry Over Citrus.

It started with a spoon stuck to the counter.
One of those mornings where the air was thick with undone things—laundry piles, unanswered texts, the faint smell of last night’s burnt toast still lingering like guilt. I wasn’t going to bake. I meant to clean. But I opened the fridge and there they were—two sad zucchinis, slumped in the drawer like they’d given up on becoming dinner.

I remembered Her Highness had a zucchini muffin thing with orange and anise. I didn’t plan to follow it exactly. But something about that list of ingredients—cardamom like a secret, orange zest like a dare—pulled me in.

The oven went on. And I followed.

What Her Highness Calls Zucchini Muffins

Martha’s version is like a pastry shop in Vienna pretending it’s rustic.
She uses orange zest and juice, which I didn’t see coming. Anise seed, too—because of course she does. The batter’s soft with three eggs and enough sugar to make you question breakfast ethics. You grate the zucchini, squeeze the hell out of it, then melt butter like it’s not a Tuesday in April.

She bakes them in tulip cups, which I don’t own. Do you?

They’re elegant. Controlled. Citrus-dusted. And she tells you to garnish them with chervil sprigs like we all have that lying around.

What I Did Differently (Not Sorry)

I didn’t have orange juice.
So I used the sad half of a clementine I found on the shelf by Mae’s old watercolor set. Zest too. Sharp and sugary and slightly off. No anise seeds either—I threw in extra cinnamon and muttered an apology. Cardamom stayed. That smell does something to me.

Also—I didn’t use tulip cups. I tore strips of parchment and crumpled them like I was angry. Which I might’ve been.

The Way It Happened In My Kitchen

I grated the zucchini too fast. The old box grater bit me—just a scratch—and I swore loud enough that Alfie ran out of the room. I squeezed the shreds into the same dish towel that has the burn mark shaped like Maine. It stained green. I didn’t care.

The eggs didn’t crack clean.
The sugar stuck to the rim of the bowl like a dare.
Butter hissed in the glass measuring cup I shouldn’t microwave anymore.

I stirred everything too hard. Then not enough. Mae walked in mid-mix asking if I remembered the lemon cake she made me when she was nine—the one that caved in. I did. The batter smelled like that. Sweet and citrus and uncertain.

They baked longer than Martha said. Maybe because I overfilled them. Maybe because my oven runs cold like I do, sometimes.
When I opened the door, the tops were golden and cracked. They looked tired. I understood.

A Few Things I Learned

The orange didn’t shout. It whispered.
The cardamom stayed in the background like a memory you’re not ready for.
And they tasted better warm—but they felt better cold.

You know what I mean.

What I Did With the Extras

Ate one on the porch with my feet bare on the cold wood. Another I wrapped in foil and put in my glovebox. Still there, probably. Mae grabbed two and said nothing, which is its own kind of compliment. One fell. The dog got it.

I didn’t bother with the glaze.

Would I Make Them Again?

Probably. Especially on days when the sun feels orange but I don’t.

That’s As Much As I Remember

The kitchen smelled like zest and old sweetness. I scraped the bowl. Left the spoon where I found it—stuck to the counter, but not so stuck I couldn’t pull it free.

If soft things are what you need, I made a cheesy potato mess last week that felt like a nap in a blanket fort. Different vibe. Still helped.

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