Tamales Dulces – Sweet Tamales With Raisins, Pineapple, Or Cinnamon.
My cousin Rafa? ¡Ay Dios mío! He thinks he knows everything about tamales. Everything.
So, you think a little corn husk can’t hold centuries of history? Think again. Tamales, mija, they aren’t just food. They are ancestors. The Aztecs, the Mayans—they were wrapping things in corn husks before Columbus even thought about sailing. It was sacred stuff, offerings to the gods. Imagine trying to explain that to Rafa (he’d ask if it had gluten).
Then the Spanish came, brought their pork and spices, and suddenly, boom! A whole new level of deliciousness. But the core? That’s indigenous. That’s resilience. That’s abuela’s secret ingredient: stubbornness. (She never shared recipes willingly. You had to earn them.)
Now, sweet tamales... those are different. Those are my mother’s specialty. Not the savory kind, oh no. She always said savory was for people who didn’t trust joy. She made them for birthdays, posadas, or just…Tuesday. She was a woman who believed in frequent sweetness. ¡Ándale!
It started innocently enough. I was six, maybe seven, and convinced my biggest rival, Gabriela, had a better birthday party than me. All bouncy castles and piñatas filled with imported candy. My mom, she saw me sulking and announced, “We will have a tamalada!” (A tamalada is when everyone makes tamales. It's beautiful chaos.)
Gabriela’s mom, Doña Elena, decided she needed to be involved. Oh, that woman! Everything was a competition. She showed up with pineapple so fancy, it practically wore a tiara. My mom rolled her eyes. "Show off," she muttered under her breath.
My older brother, Miguel, was tasked with soaking the corn husks, and, naturally, flooded the kitchen. Water everywhere! Mom nearly lost it. Then, Tía Mildred arrived. She smelled strongly of perfume and regret, always with some drama unfolding. She declared our tamal-making process “utterly barbaric” because we weren’t using a traditional metate (a stone grinding tool). Like anyone has time for that.
The filling was next: raisins, cinnamon, and piloncillo. Doña Elena insisted on adding pecans. Pecans! In sweet tamales? It was an outrage. A full-blown pastry war erupted, involving much gesturing and pointed comments about each other’s cooking skills.
I tried to sneak extra raisins into my tamales, thinking it would give me an advantage over Gabriela. My mom caught me. "No cheating, mija! That's not the spirit of a tamalada!" (The spirit, apparently, was exhausting.)
Then, disaster struck. While trying to impress Doña Elena with my perfect spreading technique, I knocked over a container of salsa. Red sauce EVERYWHERE. On the counter, on the floor, on Doña Elena’s pristine white blouse. She shrieked like a telenovela star.
Miguel, attempting to clean up the mess, slipped in the salsa and landed squarely in the pile of soaked corn husks. He looked like a swamp creature. We all burst out laughing, even Doña Elena after a few choice words and a new blouse.
But here’s the kicker. Gabriela’s party? Bouncy castle deflated halfway through. Piñata broke early, releasing a sad trickle of candy. Everyone ended up wishing they were at our messy, chaotic tamalada, smelling like cinnamon and salsa. Even Tía Mildred admitted (through a cloud of perfume) that our “barbaric” tamales were “surprisingly palatable.”
And you know what? They were. Sweet, sticky, and filled with the warmth of family, even the competitive parts.
Recipe
Ingredients 🌽🥘
- 3 lbs masa harina for tamales (not regular corn flour!)
- 1 cup (2 sticks) unsalted butter, softened
- 1 ½ cups granulated sugar
- 1 teaspoon baking powder
- ½ teaspoon salt
- 1 cup milk (or evaporated milk, even better)
- 1 teaspoon vanilla extract
- 1 lb dried raisins (or chopped pineapple or a mix!)
- ½ cup piloncillo, grated (or dark brown sugar)
- 2 tablespoons cinnamon powder
- 60 dried corn husks
Tools 🔪🥄
- Large pot with steamer insert
- Stand mixer or large bowl
- Mixing spoons
- Spatula
- Large bowls
- Measuring cups & spoons
- Parchment paper or banana leaves (optional)
Steps
- Soak the corn husks in hot water for at least 30 minutes, until pliable. This is crucial! They need to be soft enough to wrap without cracking. (If they rip, blame Miguel.)
- In a large bowl or stand mixer, cream together the butter and sugar until light and fluffy. This is your base of happiness. Don’t skimp on the butter!
- Gradually add the masa harina, baking powder, and salt to the butter mixture, alternating with the milk. Mix until well combined. It will be thick!
- Stir in the vanilla extract. Now smell it. Isn't that lovely? Like your abuela’s kitchen.
- In a separate bowl, combine the raisins (or pineapple), piloncillo, and cinnamon. Mix well so everything gets nice and sticky. (This is the good stuff.)
- To assemble the tamales, lay a softened corn husk flat. Spread about ¼ cup of the masa onto the husk, leaving about an inch of space on the sides and bottom.
- Add 1-2 tablespoons of the raisin/pineapple filling down the center of the masa. Be generous! Life is short.
- Fold one side of the husk over the filling, then fold the other side over to create a packet. Fold the bottom up to seal. (Don’t worry if they aren’t perfect. Mine never are.)
- Stand the tamales upright in a steamer basket lined with extra corn husks. Pack them snugly—they support each other.
- Steam the tamales for 1 ½ - 2 hours, or until the masa pulls away easily from the husk. Check the water level frequently! You don’t want a dry tamalada.
- Let the tamales cool slightly before serving. They’re best enjoyed warm, with a strong cup of café de olla.
Make-Ahead / Storage
- Tamales can be assembled ahead of time and refrigerated for up to 24 hours before steaming.
- Cooked tamales can be refrigerated for up to 3 days or frozen for up to 2 months.
- Reheat refrigerated tamales by steaming or microwaving. Frozen tamales should be thawed overnight before reheating.
- Leftover husks make excellent mulch.
Side Dish Pairing
- Mexican hot chocolate with a hint of cinnamon. It’s a classic pairing for a reason.
- A light fruit salad with oranges and guava. Cuts through the sweetness perfectly.
Tía Mildred siempre decía, “A little drama makes everything taste better.”
