Upside-down cinnamon sugar peach cornbread
Imagine a cinnamon bun meets an upside-down fruit cake meets cornbread!
Welcome back to the second installment of our celebrating corn recipe series. Today, we’re making an Upside-down Cinnamon Sugar Peach Cornbread—a sweet, golden bake that is just as good with a spoonful of cream as it is next to something grilled and smoky.
Every cook who writes recipes eventually succumbs to the appeal of ease: ‘ready in ten,’ ‘hands-off,’ ‘maximum flavor for minimum effort.’ I’ve written those lines. I’ve fallen for them, too. But not this time.
This cinnamon-sugar peach cornbread project should not be rushed. Source the peaches from a local farmers’ market. They should be ripe, soft at the shoulders, their juice just beginning to weep. The cornmeal should be delicious and fresh—preferably local—with a deep, nutty scent. Use good butter, something rich enough to carry not only the sweetness, but also the lingering whisper of cinnamon spice.
Speaking of slowing the pace, in my last letter, I mentioned I’d been reading Dan Barber’s The Third Plate: Field Notes on the Future of Food. Initially this was intended as part of my research into the history of corn in America. Little did I realize that within the covers of this fascinating book was an extraordinary exploration of how food and agriculture shape everything—from the health of our soil to the very pace of our lives. I thought I’d share some of my developing thoughts on the subject before we begin baking.
Convenience is a tempting lure—sometimes irresistibly so—but it strips away something essential: our connection to the process. We are living fast. Our days are measured in tasks—work, errands, obligations—and we wear our exhaustion like a badge of honor. Ask someone how they are and the answer is almost always the same: BUSY! As if busyness were proof of purpose. As if being stretched thin were something to aspire to.
But what I'm realizing is that being constantly anxious, overwhelmed and exhausted is not only symptomatic of contemporary life, but also indicative of profound imbalance. This normalization of a frantic way of living—constantly rushing, constantly consuming, constantly striving—has made us forget what it feels like to be in rhythm with the world around us. It dulls our senses. It distances us from our food, our land, our bodies, our intuition and each other. Convenience soothes the ache without ever asking where it comes from.
Words such as ‘sustainable,’ ‘regenerative,’ and ‘ethically sourced,’ are now everywhere—printed on packaging, sprinkled into marketing campaigns, used as shorthand for a better, more responsible way of eating. But we rarely stop to think about what they really mean, because, let’s face it, who would willingly choose the alternative? Unsustainable living? Degenerative farming? Unethically sourced food? And yet, so often, that’s exactly what we’re being tempted by, and for many, forced to accept. Cheap food with hidden costs. Two-for-one deals that trade nutrition for volume. Meals designed for shelf life instead of sustenance. A food system built on speed and scale, at the expense not only of soil health, animal welfare and human health is steering us towards collapse. We’re being left with abundance stripped of meaning—measured in volume, not worth, in yield, not nourishment. Flavor is dulled, seasons blur, and those who tend the land are rendered invisible. What we gain in efficiency, we lose in connection and quality.
English botanist and founder of the organic farming movement, Sir Albert Howard put it this way: ‘Artificial manures lead inevitably to artificial nutrition, artificial food, artificial animals and finally to artificial men and women.’
And so we find ourselves applauding practices that should be the norm. Of course, farming should regenerate the earth. What’s the alternative—soil stripped to the point of collapse? Of course, food should nourish. Of course, workers should be paid fairly. These are not luxuries, they are the bare minimum for a society that hopes to feed itself tomorrow.
The truth is, we’re often being stretched beyond our limits —the farmers and producers, the restaurant owners, chefs, cooks, and parents racing to get an affordable meal on the table after another relentless day. Everyone is tired. Everyone feels the weight of pressure. And under that weight, the essentials—nutritious food, healthy soil, fair labor, the simple dignity of humane treatment for all, regardless of background or status—begin to feel less like rights and more like distant ideals. But nourishment was never meant to be a privilege; it was always meant to be shared. Now, more than ever, I’m coming to see how profoundly the way we eat shapes everything around us.
I don’t have answers—at least not yet—but I’m seeking. I’ve been turning to voices that ask bigger questions: Dan Barber’s The Third Plate, Alice Waters’ We Are What We Eat, and An Agricultural Testament by Sir Albert Howard, one of the early architects of organic farming.
Obviously, we are all at different places on the learning curve, so I’d love to open up the conversation about what helps you stay connected—to the land, the process, the people behind what’s on your plate. And just as importantly, what holds you back? Time, funds, access, habit, something else entirely? If you’re comfortable I'd love you to comment below, and as I've made this post free, the comment section is open to everyone.
Making homemade cornbread might not instantly change the world, but it feels like a good place to begin. I picked up the peaches at the farmers’ market: freckled, sun-warmed, sweet enough to perfume the entire kitchen. You can use whichever stone fruit you like—plums are particularly lush. My peaches came with a conversation too—a wholesome exchange with the farmer himself, not a robot at a self-checkout kiosk.
When the cornbread finally emerged—bronzed, tender, and sticky with fruit—I sliced it up and walked some over to the neighbors. Another joyful interaction. They were delighted, and so was I.
Treat this as a creative project, an excuse to leave the house and connect with the people we too often overlook. Give the process your full attention. After all, making this cornbread could set up a chain of delightfully connected events. It’s worth every unhurried bite.
Fruit: Use plums or nectarines, try cherries or strawberries, or a combination of blueberries, blackberries, and mulberries.
Spice: Add nutmeg or cardamom for a warming, aromatic twist that compliments both sweet and savory versions.
Extracts: Stir in 1 teaspoon of vanilla paste or use half a vanilla pod. This adds depth and a floral sweetness.
The cinnamon sugar layer: Adding cinnamon sugar to the middle of the batter creates a cinnamon bun-style ribbon throughout the bake. Skip this if serving with savory dishes such as BBQ, although my peach version is particularly good paired with sticky bbq ribs!
Cornmeal – texture & terroir: Cornmeal carries the character of the land where it was grown. Just like wine or coffee, terroir (the geography, soil, and climate) affects the corn’s flavor and texture. Stone-ground cornmeal retains more of the corn kernel (including the germ), giving it a rich, slightly nutty flavor and rustic texture. The grind of your cornmeal changes everything. A fine or medium grind gives you a soft, tender crumb—reliable and easy, like an all-purpose base. But if you want something heartier, go coarse. It brings a deeper corn flavor and a pleasantly gritty texture that feels old-fashioned in the best way.
Sweetness level: Skip the fruit and cinnamon sugar layer if you prefer a classic, savory/sweet cornbread.
Serve with: Ideal as a dessert with salted whipped cream, or whipped honey butter. Or try serving as a side to smoky, grilled dishes such as BBQ, ribs, bacon baked beans, or fried chicken. This cake also makes an incredibly delicious breakfast paired with a strong cup of coffee.
Ingredients
125 g all-purpose flour
120 g fine-medium ground cornmeal (or whatever cornmeal you prefer)
70 g white/caster sugar + 70 grams light brown sugar
2 teaspoons baking powder
1 teaspoon kosher salt
230 g whole milk
65 ml vegetable oil
1 large egg, room temp
Peach layer
3-4 ripe peaches, cut into halves (or any other stone fruit you fancy)
100g caster/white sugar
60-70g unsalted butter, cut into cubes
1 ½ tsp cinnamon
Cinnamon sugar
75g white sugar
1-2 tablespoon cinnamon
Method
Preheat your oven to 200°C (400°F).
For the peach layer, place the butter cubes, sugar, cinnamon and peach halves on the bottom of a 9-10 inch cake tin or skillet.
In a large mixing bowl, whisk together the flour, cornmeal, sugar, baking powder, and salt until evenly combined. Then, add the milk, oil and egg to the dry ingredients and whisk until the batter is smooth-ish.
Dollop half the batter over the peaches. Sprinkle evenly with the cinnamon-sugar mixture (this is optional but delicious). Cover the sugar mixture with the remaining batter.
Bake for 20 to 35 minutes, or until a toothpick comes out reasonably clean when inserted in the center.
Tip for releasing the cake: Allow the cornbread to cool slightly for about 5-8 minutes, then run a knife around the edges and carefully invert onto a plate while it’s still warm to help the topping release cleanly.
Note on time and temperature: The suggested range allows for flexibility because every oven is different. To be safe, start checking for doneness after 20 minutes.
Allow to cool slightly before serving.
I don’t think I have read a post this quickly. Absolutely delightful! Gorgeous recipe.
Wow I love all of this