One of my favorite, “only in Grazalema” treats is a cubilete with my morning café con leche. It’s a unique local culinary tradition with a rich history. Below is the English translation of the wonderful blog post by Diego Martínez Salas describing this sweet and the story behind it.

Below is the link to his original post with photos. Also, his entire blog, “Raices de Grazalema”, has a wealth of information about this “Pueblo Blanco” that Alfredo and I love so well. 

— David Eugene Perry

Cubiletes de Grazalema

Cubiletes de Grazalema

The recipe we are about to transcribe is what we can call the old or Filomena recipe. This formula is the same one used in the first third of the 19th century, in the workshop and mill that Ana Marín maintained in the house on the corner of Calle Las Piedras and Calle Portal. This was subsequently inherited by her daughter, Catalina Palacios, and her granddaughter Ana Ruiz, who finally passed down the confectionery tradition to her daughter-in-law, Filomena Organvídez Sizuela. 

From the 19th century also come the recipes for *amarguillos* and sesame cakes, which can be considered the most genuinely Grazalema sweets due to their age. Anita Ramos, Francisca Barea, and Rosario Moreno also made “cubiletes”, and today, the Narváez and Chacón families continue the tradition of these pastry makers.

After the Civil War, this type of shortbread began to be known outside of Grazalema. In these years, Filomena and Antonio Salas kneaded up to 800 *cubiletes* daily, which were packed in tins of 100 units and were distributed from the *ventas* of the Sierra to the Sevillian neighborhood of San Bernardo.

In the years when necessity was pressing, many Grazalema residents toured the taverns and bars of the mountain villages, carrying bags of a dozen *cubiletes* that they raffled off among the patrons. The raffle was carried out in the old-fashioned way, by selling cards from a Spanish deck. The lucky one with the chosen card from a deck, picked by an innocent hand, would take home a dozen of these precious shortbreads that night.

The “cubiletes” were filled with “cabello de ángel” (angel hair squash) or with pieces of melon incorporated when making the syrup from the citron. They were also filled with sweet potato paste, which was the most appreciated.

Ingredients:

– ½ kg of lard 

– 1 teaspoon of ground cinnamon 

– 1 kg of sugar 

– 1 kg of flour 

– 1 ½ tablespoons of baking powder 

Knead until the right consistency is achieved (the lard needs to be slightly heated to knead properly), and fill the *cubiletes*, adhering a layer of dough to the walls of the mold. Add the filling and cover with a thin layer of the same dough. Bake for half an hour.

For anyone who’s feeling adventurous, here’s the old Grazalema recipe for Sweet Potato Paste, with which the *cubiletes* were filled.

Ingredients:

– ½ kg of sweet potatoes 

– 350 g of sugar 

– 1 lemon 

Preparation:

In a pot with plenty of water, cook the sweet potatoes. When they are tender, remove the skin and mash them. In another container, put the mash, lemon zest, and stir while heating until it loses moisture and thickens like a jam, separating from the walls of the container.

For the more daring, here’s also a recipe for *cabello de ángel* (angel hair squash).

Ingredients:

– Citron 

– Sugar 

– Lemon zest 

Cut the citron into pieces, remove the skin, and cook for 20-25 minutes until the pulp is tender. Drain and let cool, removing the seeds and strands from the squash. Reheat, if possible in a copper pot, and when it begins to boil, add the same amount of sugar as citron, stirring over low heat for about 55 minutes. Finally, add the lemon zest and stir for a few more minutes until it’s fully integrated into the *cabello de ángel*.

From those childhood days, I remember the image of my grandmother Filomena, always affectionate, kind, and gentle, kneading and making the sweets with her thin hands, in full view of her grandchildren who watched the process as something magical. She, and so many of our Grazalema grandmothers, acted with a natural simplicity that gave her a spirit of elegance, difficult to emulate today. I also cannot forget the gatherings around the large clay mixing bowl where the dough was prepared, or the meetings at the table where the *cubiletes* were wrapped, under the loving gaze of my grandmother, while her daughters Ana, Isabel, Antonia, Susi, Mamen, and Ángeles sang traditional songs of our land.

—- by Diego Martínez Salas

Mañana en Grazalema

7:15am.

Es mañana en Grazalema.

Nuestra caminata antes del amanecer culmina sobre el pueblo, un sol de paleta sin nubes se desliza sobre las colinas del este, iluminando el pueblo como una pieza de escenario. En algún lugar, un perro solitario ladra. Sopla una brisa fresca. Una abeja se posa en mi brazo y vuela lejos, atraída por las flores silvestres que recojo para nuestros amigos en Rumores para cafés después de la caminata.

8:30am

Rumores está lleno. Tomamos los dos asientos secretos, acurrucados entre los tambores de destilación y los grifos de cerveza. Tentando nuestra vista, y lo suficientemente cerca como para tocar, el altar de jamón preside en seducción sacramental. Una anciana entra del brazo de una joven. Un anciano sorbe su sol y sombra. Rocío dice “hola” y Rosi sonríe, agregando nuestras flores al tableau y yo cambio el agua en el florero de botella de plástico que nos regalaron el lunes. Mario trae nuestro café. Detrás del bar, una ópera aromática de leche humeante, tazas chocando, vasos tintineando y pan tostado se desarrolla en un murmullo practicado, como estorninos en vuelo de precisión: increíblemente cerca pero nunca chocando. El ritmo es rápido pero no apresurado. El rugido amistoso de todas las mesas llenas se extiende como un timbal por la sala. La conductora de la cocina controla, manos sin nombre creando constantemente, más bádminton que batuta. Necesito aprender su nombre.

Son las 9:15am.

Una comunión de migas alfombra el mostrador. Un cuarteto de ciclistas encuentra una mesa. Rodrigo equilibra las tostadas y por un segundo la sinfonía de cafeína y vapor caótico cesa del acero inoxidable. La música sube mientras la mañana fluye y se retira; fluye y se retira, provocando alivio.

Son las 10am.

Se entregan dos tambores de gas y Rocío recoge nuestra cuenta de 5 euros previamente dejada. Se retiran nuestras tazas vacías. Entra un turista con gorra de béisbol: un novato. Los habituales se van saliendo. La marea poblada retrocede dejando tras de sí su detrito de platos, cucharas y costras esparcidos por la playa del desayuno. Los ciclistas, revitalizados, se reagrupan y montan de nuevo. Rodrigo toma mi propina.

“Gracias.”

“De nada.”

El concierto se apaga. El personal, orquestado, camina, no corre. Las olas de la mañana ahora lamen, no chocan. Lo que era cacofonía ahora es conversación. Jadeos, ahora respiraciones.

Son las 10:15am.

Es mañana en Grazalema.
—- David Eugene Perry
8 de agosto de 2024

David está trabajando en su nueva novela inspirada en Grazalema este mes. Es la quinta visita para él y su esposo, Alfredo, al pueblo. Su galardonado thriller de misterio, “Upon This Rock”, está en desarrollo de guion y va a su segunda impresión.

Morning in Grazalema

7:15am.

It is morning in Grazalema.

Our predawn hike zeniths above town, a cloudless popsicle sun slips over eastern hills, throwing the village into a stage lit set piece. Somewhere a lone dog barks. A cool breeze blows. A bee lands on my arm and flies away, enticed by the wild flowers I gather in hand for our friends at Rumores for post caminal cafes.

8:30am

Rumores is full. We grab the two secret seats, snuggled between the distilling drums and beer spigots. Tempting our view, and close enough to touch, the altar of jamón presides in sacramental seduction. An old woman walks in on a young woman’s arm. An old man sips his sol y sombra. Rocío “holas” and Rosi smiles, adding our flowers to the tableau and I change the water in the plastic bottle vase previously gifted on Monday. Mario brings our coffee. Behind the bar, an aromatic opera of steaming milk, clanking cups, clinking glass and toasting bread unfolds in practiced murmuration, like starlings in precision flight: impossibly close but never crashing. The rhythm is rapid not rushed. The amicable roar of every-table-full washes in a timpani through the room. The kitchen conductress controls, nameless hands constantly creating, more badminton than baton. I need to learn her name.

It is 9:15am.

A communion of crumbs carpets the counter. A quartet of bikers finds a table. Rodrigo juggles toast and for a second the symphony of chaotic caffeine and steam ceases from stainless steel. The music crests as the morning ebbs and retreats; ebbs and retreats, teasing relief.

It is 10am.

Two drums of gas are delivered, and Rocío picks up our 5 Euro bill previously laid out. Our empty cups are removed. A baseball capped tourist walks in: a newbie. Regulars drift out. The populated tide recedes leaving behind its detritus of dishes, spoons and crusts scattered across the breakfasted beach. The bikers revived, regroup and remount. Rodrigo takes my tip.

“Gracias.”

“De nada.”

The concerto dims. The staff orchestrated, walks not runs. The morning’s waves now lap, not crash. What was cacophony is now conversation. Panting, now breaths.

It is 10:15am.

It’s morning in Grazalema.

—- David Eugene Perry
8 August 2024

David is working on his new novel inspired by Grazalema this month. It is the fifth visit for him and his husband, Alfredo, to the town. His award-winning mystery thriller, “Upon This Rock”, is in screenplay development and going into its second printing.