
Chef Lupita
Alegrías de Amaranto
Oaxaca's pre-Columbian amaranth bar, popped on a hot comal and bound with piloncillo, honey, and the sacred Zapotec grain that the Spanish tried, and failed, to outlaw.
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Oaxaca's pre-Columbian corn pudding, set from maíz criollo simmered with milk, canela, and piloncillo, then crowned with a cochineal-pink syrup of fresh tunas rojas.
Nicuátole is from Oaxaca. Specifically from the Valles Centrales, where it has been made since long before the Spanish arrived with their milk and their cinnamon. The original was corn, water, and wild fruit. The colonial version added what the convents brought. Both versions still exist. This is the second one, the one you find on wooden trays at the dulcerías of Jardín Sócrates and along the edges of the zócalo, cut into squares the color of cream with a stripe of magenta on top.
This is not flan. I will say it once and then I will not say it again. Flan sets from eggs. Nicuátole sets from the corn itself, from the starches in maíz criollo released by hours of soaking and patient cooking. The texture is denser, more serious, more rooted. A flan trembles. A nicuátole holds its shape on the leaf and waits for you. That difference is the whole point.
The pink on top is tuna, the fruit of the prickly pear, deepened with grana cochinilla, the dried insect that colored the robes of European royalty for three centuries. Oaxaca was the world's largest producer of cochineal in the colonial era. The dye built fortunes. Today it colors a square of corn pudding sold for ten pesos at a market stall, and that is, in its own way, a small revenge.
My mother did not make nicuátole. She was from Jalisco. I learned this one from a senora named Doña Carmen at a stall in San Agustín Yatareni who let me sit on a low wooden stool for three afternoons and watch her stir the pot. She told me when the atole speaks, it is done. I have been listening for that sound ever since. Cada estado, su propia cocina.
Nicuátole derives from the Nahuatl 'necuatolli,' meaning sweet atole, and predates the conquest by several centuries; archaeological evidence places corn-based set puddings in the Valles Centrales of Oaxaca as early as the late Classic Zapotec period. The colonial-era addition of milk, sugarcane (in the form of piloncillo), and Ceylon cinnamon transformed the pre-Columbian fruit-and-corn version into the dessert sold today at Oaxaca's markets and during the Guelaguetza festival. The cochineal coloring carries its own weight: grana cochinilla, harvested from nopal cactus in Oaxaca's central valleys, was the second most valuable export of New Spain after silver, and Oaxaca's dye monopoly held until synthetic alternatives in the late 19th century collapsed the trade.
Quantity
1 cup
preferably from the Valles Centrales of Oaxaca
Quantity
5 cups
divided
Quantity
1 cup
Quantity
1 stick, about 4 inches
Quantity
3/4 cup
finely chopped, or panela
Quantity
1/4 teaspoon
Quantity
1 strip, about 2 inches
Quantity
4
peeled
Quantity
1/4 cup
finely chopped
Quantity
2 tablespoons
Quantity
1/4 teaspoon
for color
Quantity
for serving
| Ingredient | Quantity |
|---|---|
| maíz criollo blanco (white heirloom field corn)preferably from the Valles Centrales of Oaxaca | 1 cup |
| whole milkdivided | 5 cups |
| water | 1 cup |
| canela de Ceylan (Mexican cinnamon) | 1 stick, about 4 inches |
| piloncillofinely chopped, or panela | 3/4 cup |
| fine sea salt | 1/4 teaspoon |
| lime zest | 1 strip, about 2 inches |
| ripe tunas rojas (red prickly pears)peeled | 4 |
| piloncillo for the syrupfinely chopped | 1/4 cup |
| fresh lime juice | 2 tablespoons |
| ground grana cochinilla (cochineal)for color | 1/4 teaspoon |
| banana leaf or chirimoya leaves (optional) | for serving |
Rinse the maíz criollo under cold water and pick out any dark or broken kernels. Place it in a bowl with the cup of water and 2 cups of the milk. Cover and leave on the counter for at least 8 hours, overnight is better. The kernels will soften and start to release their starch. This soak is what allows the corn to break down into the silken paste that gives nicuátole its body. No me vengas con atajos. Skip this and you will have a grainy pudding that never sets right.
Pour the corn and its soaking liquid into a high-powered blender. Blend on the highest setting for a full three to four minutes, until you have a thick, pale, creamy liquid with no visible grit. Stop the blender, scrape down the sides, and blend again. The senoras at Jardín Sócrates do this on a metate and it takes them an hour. The blender is one of the few shortcuts I will allow you here.
Set a fine-mesh sieve lined with a clean cotton cloth (a manta de cielo or a thin dish towel) over a heavy-bottomed pot. Pour the blended corn through, then gather up the corners of the cloth and squeeze hard. You want every drop of corn milk in the pot and only the tough hulls left behind in the cloth. The liquid should be the color of weak café con leche.
Add the remaining 3 cups of milk, the canela stick, the 3/4 cup piloncillo, the salt, and the strip of lime zest to the pot with the corn liquid. Whisk to dissolve the piloncillo as much as you can. Place over medium-low heat. Stir constantly with a wooden spoon, scraping the bottom and the corners. The mixture will look thin for the first ten or fifteen minutes. Do not raise the heat. Patience is the recipe.
Keep stirring. After about 25 to 35 minutes, the mixture will start to thicken visibly. The wooden spoon will leave a trail across the bottom of the pot that holds for a moment before closing. The nicuátole is ready when it coats the back of the spoon thickly and a finger drawn through that coating leaves a clean line that does not run. The senora who taught me this in San Agustín Yatareni said: 'cuando el atole habla, ya está' (when the atole speaks, it's done). The mixture starts making a soft pop as the bubbles surface through the thickened cream. Listen for it.
Pull the canela stick and the lime zest out of the pot. Pour the hot nicuátole into a shallow ceramic dish, ideally a barro rojo from Atzompa, about 8 inches square. Smooth the surface with the back of the spoon. Let it sit on the counter, uncovered, for one hour to set at room temperature. Then move it to the refrigerator for at least three more hours, or overnight, until it is firm enough to cut into squares with a knife. Esto no es flan. Nicuátole sets from the corn starch itself, not from eggs, and the texture is denser, more honest, less wobbly.
While the nicuátole sets, peel the tunas rojas. Wear gloves or hold them with a fork. The skin has tiny invisible spines that bite. Cut the flesh into chunks and push it through a sieve to extract the juice, discarding the seeds. You should have about 3/4 cup of bright magenta juice. Pour it into a small saucepan with the 1/4 cup piloncillo, the lime juice, and the ground cochineal. Simmer over low heat for about 10 minutes, until the syrup thickens enough to coat a spoon. The cochineal deepens the natural pink of the tuna into the carmine the colonial dyers of Oaxaca built an empire on.
Once the nicuátole is fully set, cut it into 2-inch squares directly in the dish. Lift each square out with a small spatula and set it on a piece of banana leaf or chirimoya leaf, the way they sell it from market trays at the dulcerías around the Centro Histórico. Spoon a generous tablespoon of the cochineal-pink tuna syrup over each square. Serve at room temperature or cool, never warm. Saber cocinar es saber vivir, and this dish has been teaching that lesson in Oaxaca for longer than the cathedral has stood in the zócalo.
1 serving (about 180g)
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