Cinnamon Cupcakes

Taught myself to make bread this week. Not because I needed to — Connie buys bread at Kroger, perfectly good bread, the kind that comes sliced and stays fresh for a week. But Betty made bread every Saturday in Evarts, and I remember the kitchen on Saturday mornings, the dough rising under a dish towel on the counter, the oven warming the house even in summer, the smell of yeast working, which is the smell of patience being rewarded. I wanted that smell in my house. I wanted it badly enough to fail at it, which I did.

First attempt Monday: flat. Dense as a brick. I used water that was too hot and killed the yeast, which is a thing I didn't know you could do because in thirty-six years of construction I never once needed to know the preferred temperature of a single-celled organism. Second attempt Wednesday: better. Rose properly, baked golden, but the crumb was too tight, too much kneading. I looked it up online, which Betty would consider cheating but Betty isn't here and the internet is. Third attempt Friday: right. Or right enough. Light, airy, golden crust, the inside soft and warm and tasting like flour and butter and time. I sliced it while it was still warm, which every bread guide says not to do, and spread butter on it and the butter melted into the bread and I stood at the counter and ate three slices and felt like I'd climbed a mountain, which I suppose I had — a small mountain, a flour-and-water mountain, but a mountain.

Connie came home and I gave her a slice and she chewed it and said Craig Hensley, you made bread. I said I did. She said why. I said because Betty made bread. She nodded. She didn't need more explanation than that. Everything I'm doing in this kitchen comes back to Betty. Everything I'm learning is something I should have learned forty years ago, when Betty's hands could have taught mine, but I was in the mines and then I was on the job site and I was too busy building other people's houses to learn how to feed my own. I'm learning now. Late, but learning.

The bread came out right on the third try, and I stood at the counter eating warm slices with butter and felt like I’d earned something. But once the oven was already warm and the kitchen already smelled like Saturday used to smell, I didn’t want to stop. Cinnamon was Betty’s signature — she put it in everything — and these cupcakes are my way of keeping the oven going a little longer, of staying inside that smell for one more hour. They’re simple, which is the point: flour, butter, sugar, spice, and enough patience to let the batter do what it knows how to do.

Prep Time: 20 minutes | Cook Time: 20 minutes | Total Time: 40 minutes | Servings: 12 cupcakes

Ingredients

1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
1 1/2 teaspoons ground cinnamon
1 teaspoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/2 cup (1 stick) unsalted butter, softened to room temperature
3/4 cup granulated sugar
2 large eggs, room temperature
1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
1/2 cup sour cream or buttermilk
For the cinnamon frosting:
1/2 cup (1 stick) unsalted butter, softened
2 cups powdered sugar, sifted
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
2–3 tablespoons whole milk
Pinch of salt

Instructions

Heat the oven. Preheat your oven to 350°F. Line a standard 12-cup muffin tin with paper liners and set aside.
Mix the dry ingredients. In a medium bowl, whisk together the flour, cinnamon, baking powder, baking soda, and salt until evenly combined. Set aside.
Cream butter and sugar. In a large bowl, beat the softened butter and granulated sugar together with a hand mixer or stand mixer on medium-high speed for 2–3 minutes, until the mixture is pale and fluffy.
Add eggs and vanilla. Add the eggs one at a time, beating well after each addition. Mix in the vanilla extract. Scrape down the sides of the bowl as needed.
Alternate wet and dry. With the mixer on low, add the flour mixture in three additions, alternating with the sour cream in two additions (flour—sour cream—flour—sour cream—flour). Mix just until no dry streaks remain; do not overmix.
Fill and bake. Divide the batter evenly among the lined muffin cups, filling each about 2/3 full. Bake for 18–20 minutes, until a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean and the tops spring back lightly when touched.
Cool completely. Let the cupcakes cool in the pan for 5 minutes, then transfer to a wire rack. Allow them to cool fully before frosting — at least 30 minutes.
Make the frosting. Beat the softened butter on medium speed until creamy, about 1 minute. Add the sifted powdered sugar, cinnamon, and a pinch of salt. Mix on low until incorporated, then increase to medium-high and beat for 2 minutes. Add milk one tablespoon at a time until the frosting reaches a smooth, spreadable consistency.
Frost and serve. Spread or pipe the cinnamon frosting onto the cooled cupcakes. Dust lightly with a pinch of extra cinnamon if you like. Serve the same day for the best texture, or store covered at room temperature for up to two days.

Nutrition (per serving)

Cinnamon Cupcakes — The Smell of Betty’s Kitchen, Bottled in a Bite