A few years ago, an Anishinaabe elder named Lucy was showing me the corn she grew in a small plot of land in Southwest Detroit. She pointed out an ear of corn peppered with swollen, irregular grey-purple growths and said she wasn’t sure what it was and why it happened. With excitement, I told her how delicious and precious this ear of corn was, and that the unfamiliar growth — huitlacoche, a fungus that grows on young corn — was not just a delicacy but something that I’d been craving.
My first experience with tasting huitlacoche was in Mexico when I was little. Huitlacoche has a deep, earthy essence, almost like a blend of mushrooms and truffles, with a faint whisper of corn sweetness lingering in the background. The umami is pronounced, offering a savory depth that seems to anchor every bite. It’s both familiar and exotic — reminding me of something ancient yet entirely fresh and innovative. Depending on how it’s cooked, there’s also a subtle smokiness, adding a complexity that lingers. Whether folded into a quesadilla or served in a tamale, its taste remains unmistakable — a celebration of earthiness that only nature could perfect.
Lucy among her plot in Southwest Detroit.
That day, I happily told Lucy I would take it home and surprise my mom with it. She was so excited: “Mija! Huitlacoche!,” she exclaimed with enthusiasm.
When I was growing up, the kitchen was my mom’s safe haven; she loved playing all types of music as she danced and cooked. She used what she could find in Detroit to make dishes like those she grew up with in Mexico, often needing to get creative with what she could find at Kroger or Meijer. Algo Especial in Southwest Detroit would import more common produce, but it was never exactly the same in terms of quality. When I was younger, it was difficult to get huitlacoche because we didn’t know anyone who grew corn in the area, and most Mexican markets didn’t procure it at the time. It wasn’t until my aunt and uncle began growing their own corn in Southwest Detroit that my mom would be able to get some as a treat for dinner.
Since that day, Lucy will call me when she sees huitlacoche so that I can take some home. Being able to connect with my Native sisters by sharing and exchanging our knowledge and traditions helps keep them alive. It reflects the old ways before colonization, a time when trade routes were open and we would share our resources with each other. I find it beautiful to be able to do this now as I’m older and connect in ways that honor the past and create a better future, one more connected to resources that are important in our cultures.
Huitlacoche cut from the cob is washed before it’s sauteed and simmered in a pan alongside tomatoes, onions, and cheese.
On a recent evening in my mom’s small kitchen in southwest Detroit, my youngest sister and I tried to remember how to make huitlacoche quesadillas without our mother’s help. We cut the huitlacoche from the cob and washed and rinsed it, then sauteed and simmered it in a pan alongside tomatoes, onions, and cheese. We argued over the correct water-to-Maseca ratio for the handmade tortillas. Eventually, we got it, and topped the tortillas with the huitlacoche mixture and a green salsa.
This sense of responsibility was instilled in me and my sisters growing up, at my mother’s table: Coming from a family that did not have generational wealth in the westernized sense, we were passed down stories, recipes, herbal remedies, and a family prayer. This was our inheritance that was important to preserve. This process and labor of love remains across the generations.
