There are certain recipes that ask very little of us.

Pastry cream is not one of them.

Anything traditionally built around eggs, milk, and butter becomes one of the greatest challenges in a plant-based kitchen. It’s relatively easy to make something that resembles vanilla pudding. It’s far more difficult to recreate the silky richness, delicate body, and quiet elegance of a true pastry cream.

That challenge fascinated me.

Pastry cream has been part of European pastry for centuries, most closely associated with the French crème pâtissière, where it quietly became the foundation of countless desserts. It fills éclairs, cream puffs, fruit tarts, mille-feuille, Danish pastries, and cakes, and over time it spread throughout Europe, finding a home in Spanish bakeries, Italian pastry shops, English desserts, and kitchens across Scandinavia. Although every culture gives it its own personality, they all rely on the same simple idea: a silky custard that quietly makes everything around it more beautiful.

Custards have always held a special place in my heart.

Perhaps it’s because they’re woven into my family memories. My mother’s flan is one of those flavors I can still remember decades later. Even now, I can almost taste it. That soft vanilla richness never really leaves you.

Pastry cream feels like one of its closest cousins.

Because of that memory, I never wanted to create a pastry cream that was simply “good for being vegan.”

I wanted it to taste like pastry cream.

To me, being plant-based should never lower the standard. It simply asks us to become better students. Before I ever begin developing a recipe like this, I spend days—and often weeks—studying traditional methods and comparing countless versions. I try to understand not only what each ingredient does, but why it belongs there in the first place. Only then do I begin asking my favorite question:

“How can I honor the original while quietly making it plant-based?”

That question led me here.

I knew soy milk alone would never create the richness I remembered. Too much cornstarch would only produce pudding. The answer wasn’t one replacement—it was several working together. Cashew cream brings body. Coconut cream contributes richness. Cultured yogurt adds a subtle depth that reminds me of dairy. Together, they recreate something that no single ingredient could achieve on its own.

Recipe development is a little like that.

Nothing succeeds alone.

Every ingredient has a conversation with the others until, eventually, they begin speaking the same language.

My little Sol Canyon Kitchen has become something of a laboratory for those conversations. Lady Sol watches over it all from the wooden beam in my kitchen, while her sister smiles from the refrigerator door. Somewhere between jars of sourdough starter, cultured butter experiments, and bowls of dough quietly fermenting, recipes slowly become themselves.

Some arrive quickly.

Others ask for patience.

This one was worth every batch.

What excites me most is that I honestly don’t think most people would ever guess this pastry cream is completely plant-based. That’s always my hope. I don’t want someone to think, “That’s good… for vegan pastry cream.” I simply want them to say,

“That’s wonderful pastry cream.”

If they later discover it’s plant-based, that’s simply the quiet surprise waiting underneath.

One beautiful pastry cream opens the door to so many beautiful desserts.

Fresh summer fruit tucked into a tart.

Cream puffs.

Layer cakes.

Danish pastries.

Norwegian Rhubarb Buns.

Or perhaps no dessert at all.

When I developed this recipe for my rhubarb buns, I intentionally made extra so I could use the second half in another dessert.

That was the plan.

Instead, every time I opened the refrigerator, I found myself taking one more spoonful.

Then another.

Eventually I realized the bowl needed a smaller container—not because I was organizing my refrigerator, but because I’d quietly eaten half of it.

Sometimes the simplest recipes are the hardest to stop enjoying.

And to me, that’s one of the best compliments a pastry cream can receive.

I hope this one quietly transforms everything it touches.

To me, that’s what Small Beautiful Things have always been—simple pleasures made with care, shared with love, and often enjoyed one spoonful at a time.