I had never heard of caperones until I moved to Andalucía. In Britain, capers mean those tiny, sharp little things that come in a jar of brine and work beautifully in a sauce for skate. Job done. Move on.

Here, it is entirely different.

Caperones – a neighbourly gift at Casa Adora.

Caperones are the larger fruit of the same plant — Capparis spinosa — and throughout the Mediterranean they grow everywhere, wildly and in profusion. In rural Andalucía you see the plants scrambling over old stone walls and spilling down roadsides, producing their extraordinary flowers before the fruit sets. Nobody plants them. Nobody tends them. They just grow.

My neighbours arrived one day bearing two large clip-top jars. One held caperones preserved in olive oil, deeply green and faintly glossy. The other was darker — a vinegar brine with what looked like chillies. Both were their own work, their own recipe, their own instinct. I didn't ask how they were made. I just said thank you.

The ancient Greeks apparently used capers to prevent a build-up of gas in the stomach. I eat them because they are completely moreish. Both jars were finished embarrassingly quickly.

You will find caperones served as a tapa in village bars across this part of Spain — and once you have tried them, those small supermarket capers feel like a compromise. They still have their place. But these are something else entirely.

You will find caperones served as a tapa in village bars across this part of Spain – and once you have tried them, those small supermarket capers feel like a compromise. They still have their place. But these are something else entirely.

If you enjoy this kind of dig into an everyday ingredient, my Is Natural Salt Healthier Than Table Salt? is in the same spirit.

Find more recipes and food adventures here.

Wonky photos, proper food, genuine adventures – The Flexible Chef