Nicuatole, a creamy corn masa pudding

Nicuatole stole my heart when I first tried it at a Mexico City restaurant a few months ago.

The waiter had described it as a corn-based dessert, and it arrived as two off-white, triangular wedges sitting in a puddle of vanilla sauce. As soon as I tasted, my mind turned to ooze. The nicuatole (pronounced “nee-kwah-TOLE-ay”) was milky. Earthy. Grainy. Sweet. The corn had this sharp, almost granite-like flavor that reminded me of a homemade corn tortilla. And god, for two wedges, this stuff had maximum comfort power. It was the equivalent of eating cubes of bread soaked in warm milk. Or Cream of Wheat on a cold day.

Came home that day and googled furiously, trying to learn more about it. (Or, in a perfect world, find a recipe.) I had no luck for about a month, until my friend Jesica casually mentioned that she may have seen a recipe in a cooking magazine she’d bought at the grocery store. Trying not to squawk, “WHAA?” I asked her kindly if I could borrow the magazine. She said yes.

It turns out Ricardo Muñoz Zurita himself had written the recipe. He’s the chef at Azul y Oro, where I first tried the nicuatole. I ended up following his instructions exactly — to mix milk, sugar and corn flour until it’s “uniform and thick” — but I failed at my first attempt. I didn’t cook it long enough; it came out soupy.

Ever determined to conquer, and finally having the time now that I’ve returned from my five million trips, I tried again yesterday, using some leftover half-and-half I’d picked up at an organic grocery store. I told Crayton to watch the clock while I mixed my milk and sugar and Maseca flour and stirred, and stirred, and stirred.

“How many minutes has it been?” That was me, standing at the stove with my wooden spoon.

“Nine.”

Then, later: “How many minutes has it been?”

“Fourteen.”

I cooked the thing for 21 minutes, until it had the texture of a thick pancake batter. It cooled to room temperature, and the result was a dense, sweet pudding that was plain, but pretty bewitching in its simplicity. A tart fruit sauce — strawberries or raspberries — might jazz things up even more, which I may try to do next time. Also, even though I used half-and-half, I think it added a little too much density. I’d use whole milk next time.

The recipe’s below, if you want to try it yourself. It’s the simplest, most comforting treat you can whip up for a sweet treat at home.

Nicuatole
Adapted from Ricardo Muñoz Zurita’s recipe in Sabor a Mexico
Serves 4 1/2 cup servings

Ingredients

500ml whole milk (about two cups)
50g Maseca corn flour (this is widely available in Latino supermarkets, if you don’t live in Mexico)
75g organic sugar

In a saucepan over low heat, whisk together milk, corn flour and sugar. Continue stirring almost constantly for the next 20 minutes, using a wooden spoon if you’ve got one. [Note: This time reflects our high altitude; if you're in a normal altitude, I'd guess it might take about 10 minutes.] Occasionally scrape the bottom of the pan or remove it from the heat to ensure that the mixture doesn’t stick or burn. It will slowly thicken from a soup-like consistency to a thick, cream-of-wheat-like consistency; and then, finally, to a mixture resembling thick pancake batter. Scoop some onto your spoon and let it fall back into the pan — if it plops into the pan in thick dollops, it’s done.

Remove from heat to molds, or small ramekins. Let cool to room temperature and serve.

Taxco and the blahs

Been feeling a little burned out lately. I don’t want to cook. (Nibbling on cheese and tortillas and calling that dinner.) I don’t want to take the recycling or run to the dry cleaners. I don’t want to do anything, except lay on my bed and read.

Maybe I’ve been cooking too much? Spent most of the past two weeks writing and developing recipes for an online recipe-writing course. Or just — doing too much. “The envelope thing,” as my mom likes to say. She means, You’re pushing the envelope.

Yesterday I was in Taxco, and the day before that, Malinalco, and two weeks before that, Monterrey, and the week before that, New York. Two weeks before that, Atlanta.

I’ve enjoyed my trips. And I should feel blessed that I’m even taking them, instead of complaining about how I’m taking too many. But now that my schedule is “back to normal,” I think I need to veg out for a few days, just so I can feel normal again. Do you ever feel that way? How do all you frequent travelers stay sane?

(Wondering, too, if the bags under my eyes are on their way to becoming permanent. Maybe this is what happens at 31. You don’t get sleep for two weeks, and boom: you wake up with an irreversible facial deformity. Damn you, bikram yoga, for being so expensive in Mexico. Bikram is my tried-and-true eye-bag remover.)

So yes. All of this is a long way to say that I enjoyed my trip to Taxco yesterday, but perhaps I would have enjoyed it more if I hadn’t immediately returned from another trip someplace else.

I went with three girlfriends and we stayed at the beautiful Casa de las Palmas, an old colonial mansion with a terrace that overlooked the city. We walked up and down Taxco’s steep, narrow streets, and poked around jewelry stores, and had drinks at a rooftop restaurant that overlooked the square.

I bought a few pairs of earrings, and two pieces of folk art. The weather was sunny and warm enough for short sleeves.

The view from our terrace at the Casa de las Palmas

So. Guess I’ll go take that recycling now. And I will also drag along my computer, where I will find a cafe, and get lots of brilliant work done.

Discovering Malinalco

Malinalco is a small town about two hours southwest of here, and our friends Brendan and Joy have raved about it for months. Up until this past weekend, they’d gone three times already, staying at a rental house with a lush garden.

We finally joined them this past weekend.

And wow.

The town was framed by these lumpy, odd-looking mountains, covered in trees. And everything, and I mean everything, was blooming. Wildflowers sprouted up over the sides of the road. Bougainvillea draped over the sidewalks. Dozens of potted succulents sat in people’s front yards, spilling out of their pots and inching toward the ground.

We spent Dia de los Muertos there, and while there wasn’t a ton going on, we did walk to a 17th-century chapel in our neighborhood on Sunday night.

The bells had clanged all day on Sunday (literally: ALL DAY), and we wondered what was going on. So we walked up into the churchyard around 9 p.m. and found the bell-ringer sitting at a table, a rope wrapped partially around his foot. He was ringing the bell that way: lifting his foot into the air, and pulling the rope with his arm.

A different man, who wore a wide-brimmed straw hat, offered us atole and a “tamalito” from a basket. We took and ate and drank, and asked them about their traditions. (Meanwhile a drunk man in the background get yelling, “Preguntanles!” like he wanted to ask us a question. No one paid him any attention.) Turns out for Dia de los Muertos, church volunteers collect small donations of fruit, bread, or squash from the neighborhood. On the evening of Nov. 1 — that very same night we were there — they’d start ringing neighbors’ bells around 11 p.m.

We thanked them and left. Sure enough, around 11:30 p.m. that night, they rang our bell. We gave them oranges and some bread we’d bought at the market that day.

It was a neat experience that could have been the highlight of the weekend. But then on Monday, the three women in our group decided to get spa treatments at a bohemian place on the outskirts of town.
They had a labyrinth and a gift shop that sold yoga pants and incense.

I had a 90-minute hot stone massage, where I pretty much melted into the table. Afterward, Joy asked me what it was like, and all I could say was, “Uhhmm… good.” My brain was too mushy to do any real thinking. (The best part: the massage was on sale for less than $60.)

You wouldn’t necessarily think a town in the middle of nowhere would have good restaurants, but somehow, it’s worked out that way.

The day we arrived, Joy and Brendan took us to one of their favorite spots on the square, where we had some fabulous-looking panuchos (a Yucatecan dish where tortillas are stuffed with beans, and topped with spicy shredded pork); and almond-crusted trout in tamarind sauce, and Jamaica flower-stuffed chicken.

I really didn’t want to leave. Alas, all good times must come to an end, so here I am, back in DF. But since I somehow lead an extremely blessed life, I’m traveling again today: Off to Taxco for a night with some girlfriends.

Traditional Day of the Dead candy

All the Day of the Dead festivities officially ended yesterday. Boo.

I did want to share with you, though: The Feria de Alfeñique had some of the neatest looking Day of the Dead candy, much of it from dulce de pepita, which is a thick, moldeable paste made from pumpkin seeds. It’s lightly sweet.

Almost everything was in miniature, which of course made the girlie side of me cry out. Especially when I saw the tiny pieces of sweet bread.

And then the teeny tortas. I bought one, just because they were so adorable. The man selling them joked, “Would you like one with ham or milanesa?”

There were also candy rats….

And hundreds of chocolates…

And tiny pieces of fruit, made from dulce de leche. (This is different from the dulce de leche in Argentina — it’s sweeter, and doesn’t have that warm caramel taste.) I liked dulce de pepita better, because it wasn’t as sweet.

And that’s not even mentioning the sugary fruits and vegetables. They’re regular old pieces of fruit (or squashes, or sweet potatoes) that have been boiled down with sugar and slathered in honey. They’re eaten a piece at a time, so you can savor their extreme-sugar state.

My faves, for their pure unique value, were the shriveled carrots and the nopal.

Lastly, I saw chongos zamoranos, which I’d read about in a few cookbooks but never seen up-close. I pictured little knots of honeyed curds — not sure why. These looked kind of like fried pastry dough, and ended up tasting like thin, ultra-concentrated sheets of dulce de leche.

Basically, another big mouthful of pure sugar. The chongos were too sweet for me.

Looking at all these now, I wish I would have bought more dulce de pepita. It’s 8:24 a.m., and I could really use a teeny torta right now with my coffee.

Day of the Dead sugar skulls in Toluca

I’m loving this time of year. Here I was, thinking the city went crazy for El Dieciséis, but Day of the Dead is so much more colorful, and soulful. Brightly colored sheets of papel picado hang in store windows. Velvety, crimson terciopelo flowers sit in vases at restaurants. Orange marigolds, the traditional Day of the Dead flower (called cempasúchil in Spanish) have suddenly bloomed in the street medians.

Some stores have even set up altars, which look like a series of steps draped in white cloth, and then covered in oranges, bananas, and bread. Yesterday I saw one at El Tizoncito, the tacos al pastor place.

I even got into the mood and created a small altar in our house. I draped a white crocheted doily on our buffet, and placed candles, cempasúchil in old jam jars, and photos of my grandparents, great-grandparents and my stepdad, who died when I was in high school. I’ve also got a tiny sugar skull wearing a wide-brimmed catrina hat, which I bought at the Feria de Alfeñique in Toluca. This is my first altar ever, by the way. I didn’t celebrate Dia de los Muertos growing up.

You absolutely have to go to the Toluca sugar skull fair, if you live anywhere close in Mexico or if you’re traveling during this time of year. They’ve got chocolate skulls. Sugar skulls. Skulls in cowboy hats. They’ve got all the traditional Mexican sweets, which I’ll write about in another post, because they’re just too detailed to try to cover here. I ate so much sugar — and a taco de quelites, to balance it all out — that I had a stomach ache on the car ride home.

Here are a few photos. If you’re interested in going, the fair is located just off the colonial square, about two blocks from the church.

These skulls are ready to be personalized -- it's a custom to write a friend's name on the skulls' forehead.

These are called oficios -- they're traditional during Day of the Dead, and the skeletons are always posed in funny scenes that depict everyday life.

A traditional style of alfeñique, or animal-shaped candy molded from sugar.

A traditional Day of the Dead ofrenda, or altar

Banh mi tacos

A few days ago, while wondering what the heck we were going to eat for dinner, I had a moment of inspiration and made a quick version of a banh mi sandwich. I took a chunk leftover baguette, smeared it lime juice-spiked mayonnaise, and layered on cilantro, pickled carrots and jicama, and chunks of roasted chicken. (The latter leftover from the great huazontle disaster.) I placed it on a plate and served it with leftover quinoa, drizzled in a miso-honey glaze.

Crayton looked at it. “What’s this?”

“Banh mi!” I said, supremely proud of myself.

Of course the real banh mi is made with liver pate. Or, as Andrea Nguyen describes in her cookbook Into the Vietnamese Kitchen (a must-have, if you’re into Vietnamese food), it’s made with nearly any “boldly flavored” meat, such as five-spice pork or garlic-roasted chicken.

My chicken was plain, but the thing still tasted great. The mayo mingled with the French bread, which mingled with the cilantro and pickled carrots, creating this sweet-savory mess that you just wanted to bury your face in. I wanted to make them again the next day, but we were out of bread. So I got out my package of tortillas from the fridge.

I half-burned one on the gas flame, and then added the chicken, two heaping spoonfuls of pickled carrot and jicama, a handful of cilantro, and a dab of sriracha. The result was just about as good as the sandwich — except with less bread, I had direct contact with the hot sauce, which made my tongue swell up. I love it when that happens.

Really, the secret here is the pickled veggies, which add just the right note of tangy-sweetness. Alice gave me this bunch, but I can’t wait to make them on my own. They’re my new fridge staple.

Banh Mi Tacos
Serves 4

4 corn tortillas
1/2 cup pickled carrots and jicama (the NYT has a great recipe here; just swap out the daikon for jicama)
Two to three pieces leftover roasted chicken, or boldly flavored meat of your choice, cut into chunks
1 handful cilantro
Sriracha sauce

Heat up your corn tortillas on a comal or gas flame. (Or, if you don’t have either of those, wrap them in paper towels or a dish towel, and stick them in the microwave.) Zap your chicken in the microwave for 10 seconds, just to warm it slightly, and add it to your tortillas. Top with at least two tablespoons of pickled carrots and jicama, and add cilantro and a dollop of sriracha. (Note on the latter: A little goes a long way.)

For the miso-honey quinoa: For 1 cup of cooked quinoa, cooked according to the package directions — In a small bowl, mix 1 tablespoon of brown miso paste in a bowl with about 2 tablespoons of walnut oil. Add honey (I used agave because it was all I had on hand), and soy or worcestershire sauce to taste. I also added a splash of Chinese cooking wine for depth. Drizzle this mixture over your quinoa, and stir to blend.

How to cook a tortilla

When I was growing up, my mom used to heat up tortillas by placing them, one at a time, on our stove’s gas flame. We usually had flour instead of corn, and she’d put one on the flame and then go away for a few seconds. When the air started to smell like charred toast, she’d come back and flip it. One side of the tortilla would be covered with black, burned splotches.

“You burned it!” I’d tell her.

She’d say: “I like them that way.”

I used to think eating burned tortillas was weird. But lately, I’ve started leaving my corn tortillas on the flame just a little bit longer. The burned parts give it this smoky, carbony taste, and it makes the tortilla a little crisper, without turning it into a tostada.

Here in Mexico, our stove has a comal between the burners. I used it once to heat up my corn tortillas, and I’m kind of ashamed to admit that I didn’t like it too much. The tortillas came out too soft. Not enough burnt parts.

How do you like your tortillas? And how do you cook them?

The great huazontle disaster

Last week, while grocery shopping at the Superama in Polanco, I got seduced by a big bunch of huazontle.

It sat in the herb section, towering over the epazote and parsley like emerald-green heather. (Huazontle, pronounded “wan-ZONE-tlay,” is a tall, wild green native to Mexico. People here remove the rough stems, cover the buds with cheese and eat them.)

I had a vague recollection of trying huazontle once, and an even vaguer recollection that I didn’t like it. But — this plant was so pretty. I may not have liked it before, but that was when other people had cooked it. In my own kitchen, with my All Clad cookware and pantry full of vinegars and oils, I could whip the huazontle into submission and make it taste the way I liked.

Three cool Mexico City markets

If you’ve got a few minutes, check out my guest post over on Ever The Nomad, a travel blog maintained by writer Anja Mutic. I wrote about three of my favorite Mexico City markets and why they’re so great. (Hint: pig uterus tacos, anyone?)

Be sure to leave a comment if you like what you read, or if you have your own favorite market experience.

My first pan de muerto

It’s Day of the Dead season in Mexico City, meaning pan de muerto has suddenly appeared in all the bakery windows. The light, sugary loaves taste faintly of orange, and they’re criss-crossed with doughy ropes meant to signify “bones.”

After trying them on my last Concha Taste Test, I wanted to learn how to make my own pan de muerto. So I trolled around the Internet and found a four-hour class at the Universidad Iberoamericana in Santa Fe.

I hesitated signing up at first, worried that I might not understand Spanish baking terms. Or, heaven forbid, that we’d have to stand in front of the class and introduce ourselves. Would I say I was an ama de casa, or an escritora? What if we had to say why we’re taking this class? “Me gusta hacer panadería” would probably sound really lame.

Then again, fearing something means you should probably jump right in. So on Tuesday, I arrived at the class kitchen with an apron and two dish towels tucked into my bag.