Atole de Amaranto de Tulyehualco

This atole is from Tulyehualco, the pueblo in the alcaldia of Xochimilco at the southern edge of Ciudad de Mexico. If you do not know Tulyehualco, you do not know amaranto. The chinampas and dry fields here have grown huauhtli, what we call amaranto in Spanish, since before the Mexica built Tenochtitlan. The Feria del Amaranto every February draws cooks from across the valley and the alegrias sold from the stalls are the same recipe the women of the pueblo have made for generations.

The technique is older than the milk. Amaranto seed has to be popped on a hot comal before you do anything with it. Raw amaranto is chalky and bitter and will ruin an atole. Toasted and popped, it turns sweet and nutty, the kind of grain that smells like a mercado in the morning. In the old method you grind it on a metate with water. In my kitchen, and in most kitchens in Xochimilco today, you grind it in a blender and pass it through a strainer. The principle is the same: get the popped grain into a smooth slurry that will thicken the milk without leaving chalk on your tongue.

The rest of the ingredients are what every central Mexican atole carries: piloncillo for that dark molasses sweetness that white sugar cannot reach, a stick of real Mexican canela, a strip of orange peel for brightness, a pinch of salt. Whole milk. The thickness comes from the amaranto itself, not from cornstarch or masa. This is not a champurrado. This is huauhtli doing the work it has done for a thousand years.

My mother did not make this. She was from Jalisco and her atoles were of masa and pinole. I learned this one from a senora at the Tulyehualco feria in 2009, who watched me write down her measurements and shook her head. 'Mija, este atole no se mide. Se siente.' This atole is not measured, it is felt. I wrote down the measurements anyway, because someone has to. Saber cocinar es saber vivir.