Grandma’s Mexican bread pudding, capirotada, heralds Easter.
Spiced with cinnamon, cloves and star anise and overflowing with cheese, peanuts and raisins, grandmother’s Easter bread pudding, capirotada, remains a family favorite
‘Grandma?” ■ “Yes, mija?” ■ “Can you teach me how to make your capirotada?” ■ “Yes, mija. Whenever you want.” ■ A few days later, Grandma came home from the store with a couple of loaves of inexpensive sliced white sandwich bread, a 5-pound bag of shredded Monterey Jack cheese, a bag of brown sugar, shelled peanuts and a box of golden raisins. That Sunday, as she leaned up against the counter for support, she walked me through how to make her Mexican bread pudding — a traditional dish to serve at Easter, to help mark the end of Lent. It’s been a family favorite for as long as I can remember.
“What does the onion do, Grams?” I asked as I placed half a large onion into the pot with the sugar and spices.
“I don’t know, mija. It’s just the way I learned. It’s good.”
My grandmother didn’t attend school, as she had to help support her family, which means she didn’t get to spend much time in the kitchen learning from her grandmother or parents how to cook. She married my grandfather at the age of 17, and they temporarily moved in with his family. She told me that the women there reluctantly taught her to cook some dishes. The rest she had to teach herself, experimenting until she could re-create the food from her childhood. “That’s a lot of syrup, Grams.” “Yes, yes, it’s good.” I continued layering the bread, alternating it with the cheese and ladlefuls of syrup.
“Push it down, mija, so there’s no white.” She meant the white bread. She wanted it completely saturated. So I continued until she was satisfied.
The bread pudding filled the familiar brown 4-quart Cinderella Pyrex bowl to the brim. I lifted the hefty bowl while my grandmother opened the oven for me.
“Now we wait,” she said as she shuffled to her room, her knees aching from decades of repetitive stress from her job as a seamstress, running industrial-size sewing machines. Some days, she spent all morning working in the yard, clearing foliage, chopping down tree limbs, bending and lifting, and moving 10- and 20-gallon potted plants. Other days, it took sheer will to get out of bed, with her legs and her permanently injured shoulder limiting her mobility.
The smell of my childhood was soon wafting through the house, stirring up memories of Easters past. I made my way to the kitchen, where Grandma was already bending down to check on the capirotada.
I pulled it out and pirated it away before Grams stuck a fork in it so I could snap an Instagram picture. Grandma laughed at me. She’d gotten used to my taking photos of the food I made, but still, she found it amusing.
One week later, on Palm Sunday, my grandmother suffered a stroke. Seventeen days after that, she had a second, massive stroke and died a day later. It was a little more than a month shy of her 89th birthday.
Her name was Luz, which, in Spanish, means “light.” It’s from one of the titles for the Virgin Mary, Nuestra Señora de la Luz, meaning “Our Lady of Light.” It’s a fitting name as
Grandma, a devout Catholic who was fiercely committed to God and family, was indeed the brightest light in our lives.
My grandmother immigrated to the United States knowing no English and with a toddler and newborn in tow. My grandfather, who had already been living and working here in San Diego as a baker, was the only other person she knew in her adopted home. Despite these limitations and the fact that she had no formal education, she forged a life steering a growing family with fierce determination and strong faith.
She learned English by listening to the radio and working on word searches. She taught herself to read by reading Psychology Today. As a young mother thrust into a strange culture, she told me, life was difficult and lonely, the local priest her only source of social interaction.
Since she had quit school at such an early age, she was determined to have her children get the best they could. She made extra money sewing and mending so they could afford private Catholic school. Eventually, she found full-time employment as a seamstress at a local major clothing manufacturer. She persuaded my grandfather to buy a house. Then another. And another. Eventually, they’d wind up with four rental properties and a large two-story Craftsman that became the family home.
One of her proudest moments was when she became a U.S. citizen. “That’s when I got my blue eyes,” she would tell me during our morning chats over coffee. She voted in every election.
This Easter marks three years since her painful passing. I’m so incredibly grateful that I moved in with her and my aunt in 2012. I got to hear stories of her childhood and her early years here in the States, firsthand. I got to know her cheeky, often sarcastic sense of humor that never seemed to surface during our frequent family gatherings. I got to watch her fierce determination to figure things out on her own. And I had the opportunity to learn several of her recipes that I can pass on to my sisters.
This Easter, I’ll be making her capirotada once again to share with the family. It’s my way of keeping her spirit alive for all of us.