Bombas de Anís Yucatecas

These belong to Yucatán. To the Peninsula. To the dulcerías around the Plaza Grande in Mérida, to the tin canisters on top of the refrigerator in Valladolid, to the little paper cones the señoras sell outside the cathedral after misa. Bombas de anís are not a Christmas-only sweet, but at Navidad and Hanal Pixán the tins come down and the bombas appear next to the mazapanes and the dulce de papaya on the Yucatecan table.

The recipe is short. Clara de huevo, sugar, anís, a breath of lime. That is all. Which means there is nowhere to hide. The whites have to be clean, the sugar has to dissolve completely, the anís has to be toasted, and the oven has to stay low for over an hour. People assume meringue is easy because the ingredients are few. Meringue is unforgiving for exactly that reason. No me vengas con atajos.

The anís is what makes these Yucatecan. Not vanilla, not almond, not rosewater. Anís. The Peninsula's love of anís goes back centuries, you taste it in the xtabentún liqueur, in certain panes dulces, in the licuados the abuelas make for upset stomachs. Toast the seeds before you grind them. The difference is not subtle. Cada estado, su propia cocina, and the Yucatán speaks in anís and achiote and sour orange. These little bombas speak in the first of those three.

My mother did not make these. Her notebook is Jalisciense, not yucateca. I learned bombas from a woman named Doña Reyna who ran a dulcería off Calle 59 in Mérida and let me sit in her kitchen for three afternoons watching her pipe them while she told me which other señoras were doing it wrong and why. She is the reason there is lime zest in this recipe. She said it makes the anís sing. She was right.