Lately, I’ve been missing the bakery. Not in a “let’s reopen tomorrow” kind of way. Not in a regret-filled, spiral-down-the-rabbit-hole way. Just in a quiet, nostalgic, flour-dusted kind of way.

I miss the creating.

I miss walking into a kitchen before sunrise and knowing that by noon, there would be something beautiful sitting in a display case that didn’t exist a few hours before. I miss the rhythm of mixing bowls and timers. The way butter and sugar could turn into something triumphant. The way frosting felt like art.

But more than that, I miss the people.

In the short amount of time we were open…three weeks before a global shutdown, which still feels like a strange plot twist…we built something real. We were new to the city. New business. New faces. And somehow, people showed up.

They came back. They brought friends. They trusted us with birthdays and small celebrations and ordinary weekdays that just needed cupcakes.

That kind of loyalty stays with you.

It’s hard to explain what it feels like to have a community form around something you built with your own two hands. Even in a short season, it was meaningful.

And yet. I don’t miss the weight of it.

I don’t miss the version of me that was carrying more than she should have. I had bigger expectations than my body, my time, and the world could realistically hold. I believed hard work could outpace circumstances. I believed passion could outrun exhaustion.

It almost did. Almost.

The bakery was beautiful. It was also relentless. Early mornings turned into long nights. Creativity turned into pressure. Joy slowly started sharing space with stress.

And when the world shut down three weeks after we opened, something in me shut down too.

It wasn’t just business logistics. It was the emotional whiplash. The momentum stopping mid-stride. The feeling of trying to push something uphill when the ground itself had shifted.

I loved the bakery.

But that version of me was trying to prove something. And I don’t need to prove anything anymore.

What I miss isn’t the storefront. It’s the creating. It’s the connection. It’s the flour-on-my-apron, buttercream-on-my-fingers kind of life.

The truth is, baking is still meant for me in some way. It just doesn’t get to almost break me anymore.

These days, I lean into nutrition. Into education. Into writing. Into feeding people in ways that don’t require me to carry the whole weight of a business on my shoulders. But every now and then, I still want to make something simple and beautiful just because I can.

No production schedule. No inventory count. No pressure. Just a bowl, a whisk, and the quiet reminder that creating is still part of who I am.

So today, I’m making something classic. Something that feels like Flour Blossom in its purest form.

Vanilla bean cupcakes with buttercream. Or as we called it at the bakery, Plain Jane.

Not because I need a reason. Not because there’s an order ticket waiting. Just because I miss it. And because I can.

Flour Blossom Vanilla Bean Cupcakes (Plain Jane)

Soft. Simple. Familiar. The kind of cupcake that built community one box at a time.

Ingredients

Cupcakes

• 1 ½ cups all-purpose flour
• 1 ½ tsp baking powder
• ¼ tsp salt
• ½ cup unsalted butter, softened
• 1 cup granulated sugar
• 2 eggs
• 1 ½ tsp vanilla bean paste (or pure vanilla extract)
• ½ cup whole milk

Buttercream

• 1 cup unsalted butter, softened
• 3 cups powdered sugar
• 1–2 tbsp heavy cream
• 1 tsp vanilla bean paste
• Pinch of salt

Instructions

1. Preheat oven to 350° and line a cupcake pan.
2. Whisk flour, baking powder, and salt together.
3. In a separate bowl, cream butter and sugar until light and fluffy.
4. Add eggs one at a time. Mix in vanilla bean paste.
5. Alternate adding dry ingredients and milk until just combined.
6. Fill liners ⅔ full and bake 18–20 minutes. Cool completely.

For the buttercream:

1. Beat butter until smooth.
2. Slowly add powdered sugar.
3. Add cream, vanilla, and salt. Beat until fluffy.
4. Frost generously. Because we don’t do thin frosting here.

I don’t know what baking will look like for me long term. Maybe it’s a cookbook. Maybe it’s recipes tucked inside blog posts. Maybe it’s a quiet Saturday morning project.

But I do know this…

I can miss something and still move forward.

I can honor what the bakery meant without reopening it in my mind.

And I can still create just without letting it cost me everything.

Natalie💛