Cookie Nuns

I thought I would blog every day, but it's just impossible. There is too much going on in Spain; my mind is saturated not only with historical sights, but with a new language and culture. The days in the archivo are fabulous but they're long, and mentally taxing. I'm slogging through a book for my independent study in religion, helping Billy keep up with the housework and laundry, and doing the long-distance bookkeeping. I think perhaps I'd better try writing blogettes instead.

So here's one.

We drove to Extremadura in western Spain on Thursday with the intention of visiting three medieval towns (we made it to two). Bill and I stayed in the Parador de Trujillo: a 16th century monastery which has been modernized and converted into a hotel. Right next door to the parador is the Convento de Santa Clara ... an order which describes itself as concepcionistas and Franciscanas. The nuns are dulce artesans. That is, they bake homemade sweets and sell them to the public.

The convent

An icon in the convent's lobby

I discovered the convent quite by accident on Friday morning; its doors were open, so I slipped inside. The lobby was quiet and serene, but I was a little surprised to see a brightly-lit showcase with cookies and tarts on display. They weren't inexpensive: most of the items were €6 to €10. But this was a religious house of women ... alluring to me, and mysterious. I wanted to buy something.

After careful consideration (the sweets were little works of art), I chose "Pastas de Sacristan," which look like thick sugar cookies, and have an almond in the center.

The cookies were €6, so I fumbled in my bag until I found the proper bills and coins (those darn €1 and €2 coins are a bit of a challenge if I'm not wearing my glasses). I wasn't entirely sure what to do next but as I glanced around, I noticed a turnstile in the corner, and a doorbell next to it. I put the money in the turnstile and rang the bell.

Only a few seconds passed before I heard a woman say "Digame!" ("Tell me!") I confess I was a bit disappointed. I had hoped to hear a breathy, ethereal voice softly sing a response: "In the name of the Blessed Virgin of Santa Clara, please tell me what you would like me to sell you." But she just sounded like an impatient store clerk.

The turnstile is constructed in such a way that one never sees who is on the other side. The device turned, and my money disappeared. I heard the invisible nun's shoes click on the stone floor as she walked away, and a minute or two later, I heard her return. The turnstile turned again, and I found twelve fat cookies in a plastic bag.

Billy doesn't really care for the cookies, which taste only faintly of almond and lemon. But I think they're delicious. And although the invisible nun didn't sing sweetly, I envision her as a beautiful, otherworldly woman who baked a blessing of heavenly love into the sweets.