Pumpkin Bundt Cake with Cream Cheese Glaze That Tastes Like Fall

I didn’t set out to make this some kind of fall tradition, it just sort of became one. Years ago, I baked this pumpkin Bundt cake on a quiet weekend because I had an open can of pumpkin and wanted something simple. It turned out so good, I made it again the next week. And then again. Now, every year when the air turns crisp, I make it without even thinking. It’s soft, full of warm spice, and the cream cheese glaze is the kind of thing you catch yourself eating with a spoon. There’s nothing fussy about it. Just a good, solid cake that makes your house smell like fall. I’ll show you exactly how I make it, and if you love pumpkin like I do, I’ll point you to a couple of other favorites, like my Pumpkin Bread with Cream Cheese Frosting and these Pumpkin Cream Cheese Muffins.

Table of Contents

Why This Pumpkin Bundt Cake Means So Much

It Wasn’t Supposed to Be Anything

This cake? It started because I didn’t want to waste half a can of pumpkin.

I wasn’t trying to come up with a recipe. I wasn’t following anything. I just wanted something warm, and I had a Bundt pan. That was it.

I threw the usual stuff in a bowl. Butter, oil, sugar. Spices. I didn’t even think about it. I mixed it, poured it in, and let it bake while I cleaned up the kitchen. Nothing special.

Then it came out of the oven. And I remember stopping. The smell hit me first, like cinnamon and something deeper. I cut into it before it cooled because I don’t have the patience not to. I stood right there, next to the sink, and ate it with my hands.

It was just good. That’s it. Not the best cake in the world. Not something for a birthday or a showstopper. Just… good. Soft. Warm. Real.

Now I make it every fall. Without fail. I don’t even think about it anymore. It’s just part of the season, like sweaters and early sunsets.

It’s the Kind of Cake You Don’t Talk Over

Bundt cakes are funny. They’re not trying to be anything. You don’t frost them. You don’t layer them. You pour in the batter, you bake it, and you eat it in slices, standing or sitting or whatever. That’s what I love.

This one stays soft for days. The pumpkin does that. So does the butter and oil together, it’s not dry, not even close. The cream cheese glaze is just enough. I don’t even make it perfect. I use a spoon. It drips where it drips.

But people go quiet when they take a bite. Not because they’re wowed. Because it tastes like something they didn’t know they were missing.

If you’ve had my Pumpkin Sugar Cookies or Pumpkin Cream Cheese Muffins, you already know, I don’t do fancy. I do familiar.

This cake is that.

How This Cake Comes Together in My Kitchen

These Are the Ingredients I Trust

I don’t use anything unusual here, just ingredients that have earned their place through trial and error. Some came from my grandma, some I figured out after baking this cake more times than I can count.

All-purpose flour forms the base. I never sift, but I do fluff it with a fork before scooping, old habit. Baking soda and baking powder work together to give it the right rise. Salt? Always. Even sweet things need it.

Spices matter here. I use pumpkin pie spice as a shortcut, but I almost always add extra cinnamon because it never feels like enough on its own. If I’m feeling bold, I’ll grate in a little fresh nutmeg or toss in a pinch of star anise. It’s subtle but makes people pause, in a good way.

Now, fat. I’ve tested this a dozen ways. I stick with half butter, half oil. Butter brings flavor, oil keeps the texture soft even after a couple days. It’s not negotiable in my house.

Then there’s white sugar and light brown sugar, each plays its part. Three eggs, a splash of vanilla, and the star of the show: a full can of plain pumpkin puree. Not the sweetened stuff. Just pumpkin. The kind that clings to the spoon and smells a little earthy.

From Bowl to Oven, the Way I Actually Do It

First things first, turn the oven to 350°F. Then I grease my Bundt pan like it owes me money. I don’t trust “nonstick” alone. I rub it with soft butter, get into the grooves, and follow with a light dusting of flour. Sometimes I use the baking spray with flour built in. Either way, I don’t skip this part. Ever.

Dry ingredients go in one bowl: flour, leaveners, salt, spices. I whisk them with a fork. Not fancy. Just enough.

In my stand mixer—or honestly, sometimes just with a big wooden spoon, I beat together the butter, oil, white sugar, and brown sugar. It gets creamy but not whipped. Then the eggs go in, one at a time. I scrape the sides after each, because I’ve learned the hard way that uneven batter makes weird cakes.

Then the pumpkin. When it hits the bowl, everything comes together, color, texture, smell. It thickens fast and looks a little like velvet when it’s right. Vanilla goes in last before the dry mix.

I add the dry ingredients in two parts, mixing just until it looks like cake batter. No overthinking. No overmixing. Just enough to pull everything together.

Then it goes into the Bundt pan. I spoon it in and smooth the top, but I don’t worry about it too much, it’ll settle in the oven. I bake it for about 45 minutes. I set a timer at 40 and check with a wooden skewer. When it slides out clean, the cake’s ready. The top should feel springy, not soft.

Now here’s the part I’ve messed up before: let it cool in the pan for ten minutes, no more. If you wait too long, it sticks. If you flip too early, it collapses. I set a timer. Flip it onto a cooling rack and say a little quiet prayer, it usually comes out perfect if you prepped the pan right.

The smell at this point? It’s warm, buttery, and completely unfair. If the kitchen isn’t already full of people, it soon will be.

If you’re in a baking groove, I’ll also nudge you toward my Pumpkin Bread with Cream Cheese Frosting, different vibe, same cozy spirit.

The Glaze That Just Makes It

I never measure this part. I used to. I don’t anymore.

It starts with cream cheese. Just a small block, soft, not cold. If I forget to take it out ahead of time (which, let’s be real, I always do), I microwave it for a few seconds and hope it doesn’t explode. Same with the butter. You just want them soft enough to mash together without a fight.

Once they’re friendly, I start adding powdered sugar. Not all at once, unless you like cleaning sugar dust out of your cupboard cracks for the next three days. I mix slow, then fast. Doesn’t take long.

Then comes the cinnamon. I never skip it. Just a little. It makes it taste like a cozy blanket. Vanilla too. Splash it in. Don’t overthink it.

Milk goes in last. I pour a tiny bit, just enough to loosen it, and I stir until it’s drizzly. Not watery. Not thick like frosting. Somewhere in the middle. I want it to fall off a spoon in slow little ribbons. You’ll know it when you see it.

Then I grab a spoon and just let it fall over the cake. No piping bag. No fancy swirls. I go around the top and let it drip wherever it wants. It’s not perfect, and that’s kind of the point. Sometimes it slides down clean. Sometimes it clumps in the grooves. I love both.

I’ll be honest, I’ve eaten this glaze out of the bowl with a finger while pretending to “check the consistency.” It happens. And if I ever have extra, I save it. It goes great on muffins, toast… a spoon.

That first bite with the glaze? It’s the moment the cake becomes something more. It’s warm, and a little tangy, and sweet without being too much. It finishes it, you know?

And honestly, even when the glaze runs off the cake and pools at the bottom, I think that’s the best part. That’s where all the flavor settles. That’s where people cut a second slice just a little bit thicker.

This is how it goes in my kitchen. No performance. No rules. Just the way I do it, because it works, and because it feels good.

Ready to move on to next part? It’s where the quiet magic happens: serving, storing, and sneaky leftover slices. Want me to keep going?

Serving, Storing, and All the Little Things That Matter

How I Serve It (and When)

I usually serve this cake once it’s cooled and the glaze has had a chance to set a little. But honestly? I’ve cut into it while the glaze was still warm and sliding off the sides, and no one complained.

Sometimes I make it the night before and just leave it covered on the counter. That way, by the time we’re ready for coffee or dessert the next day, it’s already done. The texture settles overnight and gets even softer, more even. It’s like it matures somehow, in the best way.

And when people come over? I don’t plate it in slices ahead of time. I just put the whole cake out on the stand or cutting board with a big knife next to it and let everyone help themselves. People always take a small slice first. Then they come back and take a real one.

This isn’t a cake that needs to be served “just so.” It holds its own. I’ve served it for birthdays, holidays, and also just because it was Sunday and I had pumpkin to use up.

If I want to dress it up a little, I dust the top with a little extra cinnamon or powdered sugar just before serving. That’s rare. It’s usually gone before I think of it.

How I Store It (and the Truth About Leftovers)

If there are leftovers, if I cover the whole cake loosely in foil or slip it into a cake keeper. It stays soft at room temp for a couple days, especially if the house isn’t too warm. After that, I’ll move it to the fridge. It still tastes good cold, but I usually let it come back to room temp before eating. That’s when the flavor really shines.

You can also freeze it. I’ve done that when I needed to make it ahead of time for a party. I wrap individual slices in plastic wrap and tuck them into a freezer bag. They thaw beautifully. Just don’t glaze the whole thing before freezing, save that step for after.

Oh, and if you ever find yourself eating the last slice cold from the fridge with a fork in one hand and the fridge door still open? Same.

If you like this kind of “make it now, enjoy it later” comfort, you might also want to try my Pumpkin Sugar Cookies, they’re soft, spiced, and even better the next day, just like this cake.

The Ending That Isn’t Really an Ending

I didn’t set out to make “a blog recipe” when I first baked this cake.

I had a can of pumpkin open and no plan. It was chilly outside. I was barefoot in the kitchen, wearing an old sweatshirt, and the house was quiet in that peaceful, slightly lonely way it gets in early fall. I needed the oven on. I needed to make something.

So I grabbed what I had. Threw things into bowls the way my grandma used to. I didn’t rush. I didn’t try to make it perfect. I just followed instinct.

And when it came out of the oven? It smelled like every warm memory I forgot I had. I cut a slice before it cooled, didn’t wait for the glaze, didn’t plate it pretty. I just stood there at the counter, leaning on one elbow, eating cake off a paper towel.

It was good. Quietly, solidly, no-notes good.

And somehow, that one cake stuck. It’s the one I make now when I want the house to feel like home. When the weather turns. When someone’s coming over. Or when no one is, and I want the comfort anyway.

So no, this isn’t a “showstopper.” It’s not meant to impress. But it is meant to be made. To be shared. To be sliced in slightly uneven pieces. To leave crumbs on the cutting board and glaze on someone’s chin.

It’s that kind of cake.

And if you make it, I hope you eat your first slice in the quiet, when no one’s looking. I hope you smell cinnamon on your fingers hours later. I hope it makes your kitchen feel like someone’s always there, even if it’s just you.

Because that? That’s why I bake.

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