Mexico’s Plant-Based Traditions – From Maíz to Mole
A Cuisine Born from the Soil
Mexico’s cuisine is globally celebrated, but often misunderstood. Beyond tacos and sizzling meats lies an ancient food system rooted in plants, shaped by ecological harmony, and carried forward by generations who knew how to listen to the land.
Long before colonisation, the foundation of Mesoamerican diets was built on the Three Sisters: maize, beans, and squash. These weren’t just staples—they were a farming philosophy. This is a form of intercropping, where each plant nurtures the others: maize provides height for beans to climb, beans fix nitrogen into the soil, and squash shades the ground, preventing weeds and conserving moisture. Together, they form a regenerative, resilient system known as the milpa—more than agriculture, it was (and remains) a worldview.
More Than Ingredients—A Living Memory
The pre-Hispanic table was rich and varied, even without the later European additions of pork, beef, or dairy. It celebrated wild and cultivated plants:
Amaranth (once offered to the gods) and chia, protein-rich grains still loved today in dishes like atole or alegría bars (puffed amaranth treats similar to rice crisp snacks).
Nopales, tender cactus paddles with a tangy bite and gut-friendly fibre.
Quelites, a diverse group of edible wild greens—purslane, lamb’s quarters, and huauzontle—nourish bodies and soil alike.
Epazote, not a quelite in all regions, but a fragrant herb used to flavour beans and support digestion.
These ingredients weren’t side notes. They were the story—adaptable, sustainable, and deeply regional.
Layers of Flavour, Acts of Reverence
No dish better symbolises Mexico’s culinary depth than mole. Often misunderstood as simply a “chocolate sauce,” mole is actually a family of sauces—green (mole verde), dark and smoky (mole negro), or complex blends like mole poblano—that layer seeds, chiles, spices, and herbs in a slow ritual of transformation.
While meat may now appear in many mole dishes, many traditional versions began as entirely plant-based. They weren’t austere. They were celebrations. Ground pumpkin seeds, sesame, peanuts, cacao, dried fruits, toasted tortillas, and ash—all contributed richness and body. Each mole is regional, seasonal, and deeply personal.
Cacao, Sacred and Bitter
One ingredient deserves its own place: cacao. Before it was sweetened and globalised, cacao was sacred. It was consumed unsweetened in energising, frothy drinks—sometimes spiced with chile or thickened with maize. It was an offering, a medicine, a connector to the divine.
To understand cacao this way is to undo the colonial lens and return to a source of nourishment that was spiritual, not sugary.
What Was Lost—and What Remains
Colonisation changed everything. The milpa gave way to extractive agriculture. Sugar plantations spread. Meat-heavy European diets reshaped the plate. Many Indigenous foodways were suppressed, forgotten, or rebranded.
But the roots never disappeared. They lived on in home gardens, in street tamales wrapped in banana leaves, in grandmothers’ bean pots simmered with a sprig of epazote. They live on today.
Bringing the Wisdom Home
You don’t have to replicate tradition—you just have to listen to it. Let these ideas guide your next meal:
Roast squash with lime, salt, and chile.
Simmer beans with onion and epazote (or substitute oregano if needed).
Try a simple mole verde, thickened with pumpkin seeds and fresh herbs. To start, check beginner recipes by Luz Calvo or browse Masienda’s blog—both offer accessible ways to honour this tradition.
Look for heirloom corn tortillas or masa made using traditional nixtamalisation—they’re richer in flavour, nutrition, and cultural heritage.
Explore Decolonize Your Diet by Luz Calvo and Catriona Rueda Esquibel for more rooted, respectful inspiration.
Enjoy amaranth or chia in modern ways—like atole or alegría bars.
Why It Matters
These aren’t trends—they’re old ways, still whispering. They speak of a time when food came from the soil, not the shelf. When nourishment was a collective act. In the milpa, this meant more than planting—it meant shared labour, seed saving, and meals that fed whole communities.
More than a clever technique, the milpa is a worldview—one of reciprocity, patience, and care.
Sometimes, the future of food is already behind us—waiting quietly in the milpa, where seeds still remember.