Not for Everyone

On cake, menu curation, and trusting your own taste

In mid-January, I decided to revolve my entire February cake menu around citrus. It’s not how I usually build a menu – I aim to balance things out and have something for everyone – but this month I had a hard time expanding the palate. Each month, I release a set menu for pre-ordered celebration cakes. February’s lineup was finalized at my dining table, a bowl of Sumo oranges within arms reach, after a few weeks of letting ideas swirl. That’s usually how menu planning goes: marinate on ideas for a while, then sit down and commit to the balance.

First, chocolate cake with dulce de leche whipped cream and tangerine marmalade.

Second, olive oil cake with lime brown sugar cream and kiwi jam.

Third, pistachio cake with limoncello soak, Meyer lemon curd, and cream cheese mousse.

I made this citrus-obsessed menu for a few reasons. Most obviously, winter is citrus season and I try to highlight seasonal ingredients. And let’s say I were to offer just one citrus cake, how would I possibly decide on which of the tart, juicy fruits to showcase? Each shines differently with the right partner and I genuinely have a very good time discovering the possibilities in those pairings. And fruits like tangerines, Meyer lemons, cara caras, pomelos – their season is fleeting. I wait for them every year and celebrate their arrival. Lastly, I wanted to make what I like to eat.

A menu built entirely around my personal preferences didn’t always feel like something I should offer. I don’t like rich desserts. I almost never choose chocolate, unless it’s a singular piece of darkest dark followed by a gummy worm. I prefer my sweets on the sour side. A few Novembers ago, I offered a Dirty Chai Pumpkin cake, a big seller but something I didn’t actually like eating. Which brings up the question: who is the menu for?

Is it possible to be a curator in a service-providing business?

Plus, dehydrated citrus makes the most beautiful garnish

After almost five years of experimenting with cake flavors, I’ve become aware of how easily a cake profile can tip into contrived. (And before you say “Becca, lime cream and kiwi jam sounds contrived…” just know that I had ordered fifteen pounds of kiwis and limes to make a cake for a certain Sundance-bound popstar known for a certain shade of green, before her team ultimately decided they were no longer having cake at their event. We had to do something with the kiwis.)

Early on, it felt like the longer and more complex the cake description, the more impressive it was, like cocoa earl grey chiffon with rose-scented plum jam and gin cardamom custard (this is an over-exaggeration, but you get it). It felt like proof that I had deep working knowledge of food. In reality, it showed that I didn’t yet understand two principles that now guide my menu writing.

First: what is the best format for highlighting this flavor? The kiwi jam, contrived as it may be, could have been a curd. But I worried the strength of the kiwi flavor wouldn’t hold up to eggs and butter. It could have been fresh or macerated, but in a layer cake, I like the uniformity of something you can spread. So I chose jam and focused on the question of how I can make this taste like the best version of a kiwi.

Second: how do people like to eat? In December, I made a pineapple jam for a coconut cake. I poached the pineapple with black cardamom, star anise, and Grand Marnier before simmering it into jam. There was a time I would have listed “Cardamom Anise Poached Pineapple Jam” on the menu. It sounds impressive, right? It showcases process and expertise? But I’ve learned that people order what they can imagine tasting. “Pineapple jam” is enough. When it tastes like the best version of pineapple, people trust that you’ve done more than simply chop and boil.

Here’s another question I’ve been noodling on for a while: would I get more cake orders if I offered a “Build Your Own Cake” option? Maybe someone wants chocolate cake with vanilla whipped cream, and I get the appeal. There are plenty of days when simple and familiar is exactly what I’m craving too. But I’ve started to notice a difference between collaborating and catering. While you can’t request changes to the monthly menu, I do work with customers to build custom wedding cakes. And I love when someone says, “I like passionfruit and Negronis.” That feels like an invitation, a shared starting point for something with perspective.

Whenever I bring up the Build Your Own Cake model to my boyfriend Brady, professional cook/menu approver/voice of reason, he reminds me that offering this would drive me crazy. In my head, my bakery is larger than it is. I imagine I have unlimited capacity and offering endless flexibility feels considerate. Brady brings me back down to earth, reminding me that the more I standardize, the more orders I can fulfill. In theory, choose-your-own-adventure cake is generous. In practice, it could mean twenty different fillings every week.

He’s right. And I don’t think that’s why people buy Lady Flour cakes anyway. I get real satisfaction from tinkering with ingredients, wondering how something might change an outcome (i.e. replacing a quarter of the cream in the chocolate ganache with marsala) and playing with format. I hope that comes through in the flavors and people trust I won’t steer them wrong. It’s why the Baby’s Bagels-to–Lady Flour wedding cake pipeline has meant so much to my business.

Choosing one thing always means not choosing a million others. As a small business owner and kitchen creative, every tiny decision feels like a declaration of what I value. Last year’s February menu was more balanced: carrot cake with turmeric cinnamon cream, funfetti with lime curd, black sesame with banana jam and chocolate ganache. It was broader. But this February, I wanted citrus. The oranges, the pomelos, the Meyer lemons, they’re winter’s ephemeral gifts. And this year, narrowing to them didn’t feel risky.