Kwarezimal: Malta’s Sweet Rebellion Against Lent
If you ever find yourself wandering through the narrow limestone lanes of Valletta or Mdina around Lent, following the scent of roasted almonds and orange blossom that somehow feels both sinful and saintly, chances are you’ve stumbled upon Malta’s most paradoxical treat: Kwarezimal. It’s a biscuit that pretends to be pious but tastes like indulgence, a Lenten sweet designed to test your moral resolve rather than strengthen it. One bite in, and you’ll know exactly why the Maltese decided that if they had to repent, they might as well do it with honey.
The history of Kwarezimal goes way back, to when Malta was under the Knights of St John. These were men of faith, discipline, and—let’s be honest—a rather well-fed approach to abstinence. The word “Kwarezimal” itself comes from “quaresima,” the Latin root for Lent, the forty days before Easter when good Christians are supposed to fast, reflect, and generally keep their hands off the butter. Naturally, the Maltese turned this into a culinary loophole. Kwarezimal was the perfect compromise: no butter, no eggs, no dairy, but plenty of almonds, honey, orange zest, and spices. In short, a dessert that broke none of the rules and all of the intentions.
Legend has it that nuns first baked them in convent kitchens, where penance conveniently came with a glaze of honey. Over the centuries, Kwarezimal became a household staple during Lent, especially on Fridays when meat was forbidden and moral strength was at its lowest ebb. Housewives across the islands would bake batches that filled the air with cinnamon and citrus, convincing themselves they were simply keeping tradition alive, not indulging in gluttony disguised as devotion.
There’s a certain monastic simplicity about the recipe. No fancy ingredients, no complex techniques, no buttercream roses or chocolate swirls. Just ground almonds, flour, honey, sugar, and a whisper of orange zest. Yet, like so many Mediterranean things, that simplicity hides a world of nuance. Every Maltese grandmother has her own way of doing it. Some swear by using only orange blossom water, others add a touch of cocoa or a dash of clove. The shape varies too—some go for long bars, others prefer lozenge-like slabs with rounded edges, each brushed with warm honey and sprinkled with crushed nuts, shining like polished amber.
Regional varieties are few but fascinating. In Valletta, the biscuits tend to be denser and darker, almost brick-like until you bite in and discover they’re miraculously tender. In Gozo, they’re often lighter, with a touch more citrus and a more generous drizzle of honey. There’s even the occasional twist from enthusiastic bakers who sneak in a spoonful of liqueur—Marsala, perhaps—just to add that little whisper of sin.
What makes Kwarezimal special isn’t just the taste; it’s the ritual. You can almost feel the centuries of Catholic guilt baked into it. There’s something beautifully ironic about a dessert invented to replace indulgent sweets that ends up being utterly irresistible. It’s the edible embodiment of human compromise: yes, we’ll give up butter and chocolate, but we’re still going to have something that tastes heavenly. Maltese Lent, after all, has always been less about denial and more about controlled temptation.
It’s also a window into how Maltese cuisine so effortlessly bridges North Africa and southern Europe. The almonds and honey nod to Arabic roots; the orange zest and cinnamon whisper of Sicily and Spain. Malta’s food, much like its language, has always been a crossroad of empires, and Kwarezimal is a delicious souvenir of that melting pot.
When it comes to drinks, tradition might suggest a cup of tea or black coffee—something simple, austere even. But the modern Maltese way is far more relaxed. Try it with a small glass of sweet Marsala wine or even a splash of Limoncello if you’re in the mood for something lively. For an afternoon treat, a cappuccino does wonders; the frothy milk and bitter coffee play beautifully with the honey and citrus of the biscuit. And if you really want to lean into the indulgence, a dessert wine like Moscato d’Asti is a divine match. It’s technically still Lent, but who’s checking?
Pairing Kwarezimal with other foods is surprisingly easy because it behaves well on the plate. It doesn’t fight for attention, but it also refuses to be ignored. Try it with fresh oranges or mandarin slices to echo the zest in the dough. Some like to crumble it over Greek yoghurt with a drizzle of honey for breakfast, which feels just virtuous enough to justify having dessert before noon. Others go the full route of decadence and serve it with a scoop of vanilla gelato or a dollop of ricotta—something that would make the medieval monks clutch their rosaries but secretly approve.
As for health benefits, the biscuit scores a few points. Almonds are rich in vitamin E, good fats, and magnesium; honey brings antioxidants and antibacterial properties; orange zest adds vitamin C and a lovely fragrance. You could almost argue it’s a health food—if you squint and ignore the sugar. The lack of butter and dairy means it’s lighter than most biscuits, and the spices like cinnamon and clove even help with digestion. Still, moderation is key. Eat half a tray, and you’ll need a walk around the Three Cities to atone.
Finding Kwarezimal isn’t difficult if you’re on the islands at the right time. During Lent, bakeries across Malta and Gozo display them proudly, often alongside figolli (the post-Lenten Easter almond pastries) as if showing both sides of the moral coin: restraint and reward. The most famous spots include small family bakeries in Rabat and Valletta where recipes have been passed down since the 18th century. Some cafés even sell them year-round, particularly those catering to tourists who don’t understand why something this good should be seasonal. There’s also a growing trend of gourmet versions—some dipped in dark chocolate, some made gluten-free, others dusted with pistachios. Purists roll their eyes, but the rest of us know better: tradition tastes great, but innovation tastes even better.
Kwarezimal is also making a quiet appearance abroad, wherever Maltese communities have settled. In London, you might find them at speciality Mediterranean bakeries in Camden or Soho. In Toronto or Melbourne, Maltese expats proudly bake them in church halls and community events, turning Lent into a global sweet season.
Kwarezimal Recipe
To make Kwarezimal at home, you don’t need fancy tools—just a mixing bowl, a baking tray, and the will to smell like almonds for the rest of the day. Begin with about 300 grams of ground almonds and 200 grams of flour. Add 150 grams of sugar, a teaspoon each of cinnamon and mixed spice, and the zest of an orange. Some people sneak in a touch of cocoa powder; others insist it’s heresy. Stir it all together, then drizzle in a few tablespoons of honey and enough water to form a soft but firm dough. Knead it lightly—this isn’t bread, so don’t get carried away.
Shape the dough into oblong bars, roughly the length of your hand, and place them on a parchment-lined baking tray. They’ll expand only slightly, so you can space them quite closely. Bake at 180°C for about twenty minutes, until the edges darken and your kitchen smells like the inside of a convent during confession hour.
While they’re still warm, brush them generously with honey and sprinkle over chopped almonds or pistachios for a little flair. Let them cool just enough so the honey forms a glossy glaze, and then—though tradition says you should wait—have one straight away. They’re at their best when just a bit warm, slightly chewy in the middle, crisp at the edges, and fragrant with citrus and spice.
Stored in an airtight tin, they’ll last for a week, though good luck making them last that long. They pair beautifully with morning coffee or as a midnight snack when Lent starts to feel a bit too long. And if anyone asks, you’re not breaking your fast—you’re merely appreciating cultural heritage.
There’s a saying in Malta that Lent without Kwarezimal is like Christmas without lights. It’s not just a sweet, it’s a seasonal ritual—a moment of shared identity disguised as dessert. The funny thing is, it was created to remind people of moderation, yet it’s one of those rare things that encourages you to abandon moderation altogether. A little like life on the islands themselves: sunny, bold, and impossible to resist.
