Zacatecas, Mexico, often missed on the typical tourist trail, unfolded beneath the airplane window as a tapestry of scrubby green fields and earthy brown roads. This was not the usual glamorous Mexico, but the heart of the country, the rural desert state of Zacatecas, just north of the nation’s center. Landing near the colonial city of Zacatecas, a city famed for its silver mining history, my destination with my mother was in the opposite direction – towards the parched ranch lands between Fresnillo and Valparaíso, my parents’ birthplace. Stories of this land had filled my childhood, but now, anticipation centered on one thing: the food.
The culinary promise of an authentic gordita Zacatecana danced in my mind – a fluffy corn cake, griddled to perfection, ready to be filled with cheese, meat, or seasonal vegetables. My family’s tales painted a picture far more delectable than the gorditas of my East LA upbringing. Finally, I would taste Aunt Marta’s renowned raw-milk cheeses at their source, truly fresh. Childhood memories were peppered with descriptions of sweet queso de tuna, a cactus fruit taffy from local markets, and the vibrant cactus fruits growing wild near my parents’ homes. These were not just foods; they were stories waiting to be tasted.
My mother, who journeyed to the U.S. in 1961, carried the ranchito (ranch village) of her childhood in her heart. Annual trips to visit family and replenish her stock of Aunt Marta’s cheeses – enough to fill our freezer like a prepper’s stash – became less frequent over the last decade. “Ya no era lo mismo,” she’d say – it wasn’t the same. The passing of her beloved Aunt Nachita and the encroaching narco-violence, a shadow over even the smallest Zacatecan villages, had changed things.
This time, my insistence to join her coincided with her planned August trip, timed perfectly after the summer heat, during Zacatecas’s “season of the waters.” “When everything is green and abundant!” she exclaimed, her Spanish filled with excitement. As our rental car ventured deeper into the countryside, the transformation was breathtaking. The desert had awakened. Foothills were draped in green grass, dotted with grazing cattle. Towering nopales (prickly pear cactus) reached incredible heights, some as tall as two-story buildings, their thick paddles adorned with vibrant fruits against the clear sky. Cornfields boasted stalks taller than me, heavy with ripe ears.
We drove past La Yerbabuena, my mother’s village, nestled a mile from the winding highway, towards Fresnillo, to stay with my Aunt Margarita Morales. She had left La Yerbabuena in 2000, seeking relief from unreliable water and electricity, though the wood-fired stove for hot water remained. Arriving at her sturdy home, built by my Uncle Albino, on a rocky, unpaved street fortified with metal bars and concrete posts, midday, we found it empty. Their pickup truck had broken down returning from Aguascalientes, where they were visiting family. Luckily, Aunt Margarita had entrusted keys to our cousin Sandra. Inside, a welcoming pot of spicy menudo (tripe stew) and leftover sautéed cactus awaited. These wild nopales were tangier and more tender than their cultivated counterparts in LA. Midnight brought the family’s return, heralded by Aunt Margarita’s joking entrance, “Ya llegó?por quien lloraban [The one) you’ve been crying for?has arrived]!” A proper welcome feast ensued, headlined by rebocado, a flavorful pork spine and purslane stew, extending into the early hours with coffee, laughter, and stories shared between my mother and aunt.
My visit was strategically timed for Fresnillo’s Sunday tianguis, a sprawling weekly bazaar, a mix of farmers market and swap meet. Bargaining was as valuable as pesos, Aunt Margarita explained, offering everything from laundry soap to backyard cilantro to Huichol Indian arthritis balm. An early 9 a.m. arrival was crucial to avoid “revoltada y manoseada [touched up and bruised]” produce.
Beans at a Mexican Market
Mountains of beans in countless varieties were on display – a bean for every month, named for their blooming season: rosy flor de mayos, creamy flor de junios. Large, buttery patoles, or scarlet runner beans, akin to lima beans but starchier, also beckoned. Wandering through the stalls, I was captivated by the vendors’ rhythmic calls, “Andale! Gorditas, quesadillitas, taquitos, atolitos!” My treasure was agua fresca de pulpa de coco, a coconut drink beyond compare – coconut meat and water, chilled with ice shards, subtly sweet, and filled with tender coconut pieces, purchased from a vendor proudly proclaiming, “Es de puro coco natural, nada de azúcar [It’s pure, natural coconut, no sugar]!”
We sampled gorditas de maíz crudo, crumbly purple corn cookies, sugar, and lard, from a vendor with baskets overflowing with lavender treats, reminiscent of cornbread edges. A young boy offered slices of coconut milk-soaked tres leches cake with peaches. Nearby, camotes (sweet potatoes) simmered in brass pots with piloncillo syrup. Elotes tatemados, corn roasted in wood-fired clay ovens, were enjoyed simply, highlighting the grain’s pure flavor.
Despite the market snacking, Aunt Margarita welcomed us home with fava bean soup and asado de bodas, a rich pork and red chile stew. We settled into a rhythm of daily family visits, each bringing a new, yet familiar, dish. At my cousin Chuyita Sanchez’s adobe home in San Pablo, a ranch town, I savored a tangy green mole of tomatillos, jalapeños, and cilantro, accompanying freshly stewed chicken. Zacatecan moles, unlike those of Puebla and Oaxaca, are lighter, relying on fresh, seasonal ingredients rather than dried chiles and nuts.
In San José de Llanetes, a village amidst abandoned haciendas, we visited my 86-year-old great-uncle, Guadalupe Rojas, who helped raise my mother. Our surprise visit found his refrigerator bare, the produce truck yet to arrive. Embarrassed, he offered market cheese for quesadillas, but I suggested a guiso (sauté) from his garden. In Zacatecas, serving guests without meat or cheese was unusual. Fortunately, squash blossoms were abundant. His garden overflowed with yellow blooms. We created a guiso with squash, blossoms, onion, a jalapeño, and overripe tomatoes. “Oye?son buenos!” Uncle Lupe admitted, consuming nine tacos of the vegetable sauté. I realized, this resourceful cooking was likely where I inherited my fast metabolism.
Squash Blossom Tacos in Zacatecas
Vegetarianism in Zacatecan ranch life, as my mother knew it, was often necessity. Beans were a staple, meat and dairy luxuries. Even now, her meals could be corn tortillas with salsa. Recado, a sofrito-like base of tomatoes, onions, garlic, and salt, stretched flavors of sparse vegetables like corn or abundant chayotes, green beans, potatoes, and peas. This trip shifted my perspective, appreciating this resourceful way of life. Adulthood arrived when Aunt Margarita taught me to shape a gordita from fresh masa. It was my ancestral food, now finally my own.
Aunt Marta embodied self-sufficiency. Raised alongside my mother by our great-uncle, she was taken in by her aunt Carlota Cabral, a fourth-generation cheese maker, at age seven, learning the craft.
We spent days with Aunt Marta and her sons, Octavio and Juan Carlos, at their home in La Yerbabuena. Their house, atop a rocky road, overlooked the village and green foothills. Cows grazed in their potrero a mile away. A decade ago, Marta’s husband moved to the U.S. for diabetes treatment, leaving Marta and her sons to manage 30 cows, pigs, and chickens.
Aunt Marta’s rich, raw asadero cheese resembled fresh mozzarella, made with leche de apoyo, the cow’s extra-fatty milk reserved for calves. We observed my cousins coaxing this milk by briefly letting a calf feed to stimulate flow. My mother eagerly drank a shot of the warm milk.
Back in the kitchen, Aunt Marta presented us with fresh cheese, “No más para ustedes [Just for you]!” It rested in whey, just firm enough to slice, enjoyed with toasted tortillas and her chile rojo fried potatoes – intensely flavorful and unique.
She demonstrated cheese making. Warm milk arrived in tin buckets; rennet was added as breakfast cooked. Curds formed, ready for pressing after dishes. Wrapped in cloth, placed in a hollowed log, weighed down with stones to expel whey. For fresh asadero, salting followed. For firmer panelas, the pressed cheese was ground, salted, formed into disks, coated in red chile paste, pressed again, and aged in her cheese cave for three days, then air-cured for a day to form a rind.
Aunt Marta and her sons produced 25 cheeses daily, selling them at the farm to loyal customers. One customer, from a neighboring village, loaded 12 cheeses for his visiting daughters from the U.S., explaining, “Pues?el sabor no hecha mentiras [Well?taste doesn’t lie].”
Departing for the airport, I savored the heat, breathing in the desert air, a contrast to my arrival complaints. Goodbyes and cheek-kisses to family were now warm and familiar.
