🕒Prep 30 min🔥Cook 1 hr 30 min⌛Total 2 hr 30 min🍽️8 servings🔢450 kcal / serving🌎Mexican

Capirotada – Piloncillo Bread Pudding With Cheese And Dried Fruit

The Great Capirotada Heist of ‘98

Ay, Dios mío. I swear, sometimes my family thinks “sharing” means taking everything before anyone else gets a chance. It was especially bad during Lent.

Now, capirotada…that’s not just dessert, that's history in a bowl. It came from the Spanish nuns in Mexico, see? They were trying to use up leftovers – stale bread, fruit no one wanted, even cheese! (Can you believe it?)—because they were fasting for Semana Santa. They started making this sweet pudding thing, and people loved it. ¡Ándale!, It wasn’t fancy, but it was good.

Then, it spread all over Mexico, each region putting their own spin on it. Some add nuts, others raisins soaked in rum (Abuelo always insisted on the rum). My abuela, well, she had her own spin. She didn’t measure anything, which meant every batch was different. Sometimes sweeter, sometimes spicier. But always…a battleground.

I remember one year, 1998 to be exact, everyone was vying for the first bowl. It was Good Friday, and Abuelita had just pulled the capirotada out of the oven. The aroma alone could bring a saint back to life! (And maybe raise some tension.) My cousin Marco, he's always been a little…opportunistic, tried to sneak a spoonful while she wasn't looking. Abuelita caught him with her wooden spoon mid-air. "¡Marco!" she yelled, "Manos fuera!" (Hands off!) He turned beet red, mija, I thought he would disappear.

But then Tía Mildred showed up. Oh, Tía Mildred. That woman could start a fight in an empty church. She strolled in, announced she hadn't eaten all day, and demanded the biggest piece. “I need my strength, you know,” she said dramatically. “For the Stations of the Cross.” Like attending church was manual labor.

Abuelita, bless her heart, tried to reason with her. "Mildred, there's enough for everyone." Which was a lie. There never was. Suddenly, my other cousins were chiming in: “Me first!” “No, me!” A full-blown capirotada riot erupted. My poor father was trying to mediate, but it was like trying to stop a hurricane with a napkin.

Then little Pablo, my youngest cousin—he was like five years old—started crying because he thought no one would save him any. Honestly, that’s what tipped the scales. Abuelita sighed, scooped out a tiny portion for Pablo, and then gave Tía Mildred the entire remaining pan just to restore peace. It was madness. Utter chaos.

Everyone started digging in; it smelled like cinnamon and piloncillo and a little bit of regret. I remember quietly enjoying mine, trying not to make eye contact with anyone. Except, of course, my abuela. She winked at me and whispered, “Don't tell your aunt, but I made another one while everyone was fighting.” Smart woman, that Abuelita.

Carlos came home that night and asked what all the yelling was about. I told him it was nothing, just a little family tradition. He just blinked at me. He doesn't understand these things. (Men.)

Last year, we tried assigning numbers. First come, first served. Didn't work. My uncle Ricardo bribed little Sofia to switch places with him. The drama! This year? We’re making two batches. One for the adults, one for the kids…and hiding one from Tía Mildred.

I still make Abuelita’s recipe every Lent, though. It’s worth the battle scars, honestly. It tastes like love…and a slight sense of impending doom.

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