I’ve made a lot of cakes in my life. But this one? It’s got a thing that’s super rare — a hint of cinnamon in the batter that hits you as you cut into it. It’s not overpowering, just enough to stir memories of grandma’s kitchen, even if you’re not Amish and didn’t grow up pulling lightbulbs out to make your own vanilla extract.
This cake’s kinda like that friend you haven’t seen in ages — comfortable, familiar, but with this little twist that makes you stop and think. It’s almost like the salt in this batter works in tandem with the sweetness, making each bite feel more real, more honest. It’s perfect for these chilly mornings, or that moment after dinner when you just want a quiet, no-fuss slice of something sweet and simple.
Anyway, I kept wondering if I should add more cinnamon or less sugar… but really, it’s just right as is. Sometimes the quietest recipes carry the loudest stories.

Cinnamon-Infused Vanilla Cake
Ingredients
Equipment
Method
- Preheat the oven to 350°F (175°C). Line a nine-inch cake pan with parchment paper and lightly grease it. Measure and sift the flour, baking powder, salt, and cinnamon into a large mixing bowl.
- In a separate bowl, whisk together the eggs and sugar until the mixture is pale and slightly thickened, about 2-3 minutes. Add the melted butter, vanilla extract, and milk, then stir until well combined.
- Gradually add the wet ingredients to the dry ingredients, folding gently with a spatula or mixing on low speed until just combined. The batter should be smooth with no streaks of flour. Do not overmix.
- Pour the batter into the prepared cake pan, smoothing the top with a spatula. Lightly tap the pan on the counter to release any air bubbles and ensure even distribution.
- Bake in the preheated oven for about 35 minutes, or until the top is golden brown and a toothpick inserted into the center comes out clean. The cake should be risen and slightly firm to the touch.
- Allow the cake to cool in the pan for 10 minutes, then transfer to a wire rack. Let it cool completely before slicing to reveal a moist crumb with a delicate cinnamon swirl visible across the interior.
Sometimes I wonder if the Amish intentional simplicity is like a shortcut to the soul. This cake just feels honest. No fuss, no pretenses. A reminder that good things come in humble packages — like a cake from someone’s grandma’s recipe box, handed down and tweaked a little over time. I guess that’s what makes it special. Or maybe I just like the smell of cinnamon wafting through the kitchen.
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