Ok friends, let’s take a moment to acknowledge a universal truth: Martha Stewart is Hall of Fame for a reason. She’s cooler than most of us will ever be—like, I’m not friends with Snoop Dogg, are you? No? Yeah, same. Martha’s over here aging in reverse, hanging out with rap royalty, and casually dominating every corner of the domestic arts while we’re over here Googling things like “how to clean burnt stuff off a pan” and “is mold on cheese really bad?”
The woman is the GOAT. She probably folds fitted sheets in her sleep. She’s everything I aspire to be—except I don’t think she’s ever melted a plastic spatula because she left it on the stove while she “just quick checked” Instagram. Allegedly. Not that I’ve done that. Recently.
Anyway, I’ve been in a spring slump lately—the kind where you keep telling yourself you’ll go outside when it’s warmer, but then it is warmer and you still somehow end up curled up on the couch, zoned out half watching the cubs and half zombie scrolling Instagram. What? Just me?
So I decided to bring some literal sunshine into my kitchen. What better way than lemon bars? They're sweet, they're tangy, they’re yellow (nature’s serotonin), and let’s be honest, they’re also a great excuse to eat what is essentially citrus pie for breakfast, lunch, and an afternoon pick-me-up. #NoRegrets
So I started the hunt for the perfect lemon bar recipe. You know, the kind that’s not overly fussy. I didn’t want to separate 9 eggs, zest lemons harvested exclusively on a Tuesday under a waxing gibbous moon, or channel Ina Garten’s energy and use “really good” butter that costs more than my mortgage.
I went down the rabbit hole. I sifted (metaphorically and physically) through cookbooks, food blogs, and a lemon-enthusiast Reddit thread I’m still not sure wasn’t a cult.
And then I realized… DUH. Martha. Of course Martha Stewart has the perfect lemon bar recipe. Probably written in cursive with gold ink while she hand-pressed lemons into crystal bowls or something.
I went to her site, and sure enough: there it was. The sunshine bar I was searching for. It didn’t require 47 steps. It wasn’t going to take up my entire weekend. It was just right. Not too sweet, not too tart, just classic, creamy, citrusy magic on a shortbread crust.
I made them. I wept a little. My family tried them and didn’t ask if there was a “backup dessert.” Even my cat looked impressed, which is saying something because she once stared judgmentally at me for eating peanut butter out of the jar. (Rude.)
And now, because I care deeply about your happiness and I want you to spend less time recipe hunting and more time eating lemon bars with your face in the sun like a happy lizard, I present to you:
The Perfect Creamy Lemon Bars (courtesy of her Highness of the Kitchen, Martha Stewart)
Ingredients
- ½ cup (1 stick) unsalted butter, room temperature, plus more for pan
- ½ cup confectioners' sugar, plus more for dusting
- ¼ teaspoon salt
- 1 cup all-purpose flour, (spooned and leveled)
- 4 large egg yolks
- 1 can (14 ounces) sweetened condensed milk
- ¾ cup fresh lemon juice (from about 3 lemons)
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Preheat your oven to 350°F (175°C). Line a 9-by-13-inch baking pan with parchment paper or foil, leaving a little overhang on the sides so you can lift the bars out later like the kitchen wizard you are.
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Make the crust:
In a medium bowl (or the bowl of a stand mixer if you’re into that kind of thing), cream together the butter and confectioners sugar until light and fluffy. Add the flour and salt, and mix until crumbly and well combined—kind of like wet sand that’s really into carbs. Don't over mix my friends, you want your shortbread to be tender and dreamy. -
Press the dough into your pan. Get in there with your fingers or the bottom of a measuring cup. Prick it all over with a fork. Bake for 18-20 minutes, until lightly golden. This is your buttery shortbread base, aka the edible plate for your lemon dreams.
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Make the filling:
While the crust is baking, whisk together the eggs yolks, sweetened condensed milk and lemon juice in a bowl. Pro tip: don’t use a tiny bowl here or you’ll end up with lemon goo on your counter and a tiny existential crisis. -
Pour the filling onto the hot crust. That’s right—don’t wait for it to cool. The crust is like, “Bring it on,” and the filling is like, “Here I come,” and together they become something magical.
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Bake for another 20-25 minutes, or until the center is set and doesn’t jiggle like it’s auditioning for a Jell-O commercial.
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Cool completely. Seriously. Don’t try to cut into them while they’re hot unless you want lemon soup. Once cool, cover them in plastic wrap and stick them in the fridge for 24 hours at least to fully set. I know, you want them now, but a little delayed gratification is the path to lemon bar heaven! Carefully lift them out using the parchment overhang and cut into squares or rectangles or hearts or whatever shape feels spiritually correct to you.
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Dust with confectioners' sugar, take a dramatic photo for Instagram (don’t forget the filter that makes it look like you live in a French cottage), and devour.
Final Thoughts (and Mild Lemon Bar Addiction Warnings)
I’ve now made these lemon bars three times in two weeks. My neighbors are suspicious of my motives. My cat thinks lemon bars are a new food group. I’m not saying they changed my life, but I’m also not not saying that.
Martha, if you’re reading this (and let’s pretend she is because why not?), thank you for blessing us mortals with this recipe. You didn’t have to go that hard, but you did. And we are all better—and slightly more lemony—because of it.
So if you’ve got a bowl, some lemons, and the will to make something that tastes like spring got a glow-up, you know what to do.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to make another batch “just in case.” (In case of what? Don’t worry about it.)
Stay zesty, friends. 🍋
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