A few years ago, an elder from Anishinabe, named Lucy, showed me corn that grew on a small land in southwestern Detroit. She pointed out the cone ears with swollen irregular grey purple growth and said she didn’t know what it was and why it happened. Excited, I told her how delicious and precious these corn ears are, and how unfamiliar growth – the fungus that grow in young corn is, not just a delicate matter, but something I crave.
My first experience with tasting Huitlacoche was in Mexico when I was a little kid. Huitlacoche has a deep, earthy essence like a mushroom and truffle blend, with faint whispers that leave the sweetness of corn in the background. The umami is prominent and offers a delicious depth that appears to be fixed with each bite. It is familiar and exotic, and reminds us of something that is ancient yet completely fresh and innovative. Depending on the cooking method, there is a subtle smoky feel, adding a long-lasting complexity. Even if folded into a quesadilla, its flavor remains unmistakable whether it is served in tamales or not.
Lucy in her plot in southwestern Detroit.
That day, I happily told Lucy he would take it home and surprise him. She was very excited: “Mija! Huitlacoche!”, she cried with enthusiasm.
When I was growing up, the kitchen was my mother’s safe haven. She loved playing all sorts of music when she danced and cooked. She used what she found in Detroit to cook dishes that looked like she grew up in Mexico. Argo special in southwestern Detroit I import more general produce, but it wasn’t exactly the same in terms of quality. When I was young, we didn’t know anyone who grew corn in this area, so it was difficult to get a Huitlacoche. Since my aunt and uncle began raising their own corn in southwest Detroit, my mother was able to get some as a treat for dinner.
Since that day, Lucy will call me when she sees Huitlacoche so I can take her home. Being able to connect with my sisters in my home country by sharing and exchanging our knowledge and traditions helps us keep them alive. It reflects the old pre-colonial methods, the time when trade routes were open, and we share resources with each other. I’m old and I think it’s beautiful to be able to connect in a way that respects the past and creates a better future.
Cut from the cob, the Huitlacoche is washed before being simmered in a pot along with tomatoes, onions and cheese.
A recent evening in my mother’s small kitchen in southwest Detroit, my youngest child and I learned how to make Huitlacoche Quesadillas without the help of my mother. We cut, washed and rinsed the Huitlacoche from the cob, fry it and simmered in a pot with tomatoes, onions and cheese. We discussed the correct water and Meiseka ratios for handmade tortillas. Finally, we got it and tortillas were topped with a mixture of huitrakoche and green salsa.
This sense of responsibility was planted at my mother’s table in my sisters and I grew up with. Coming from families who had no generational wealth in the Westernized sense, we took over stories, recipes, herbal salvation, and family prayers. This was our inheritance that was important to preserve. This process and labor of love remains throughout the generation.
