Guardians of the Corn

As a child in Oaxaca’s Valles Centrales, Carina Santiago had to complete the task of removing corn from its cob before heading out to play. The vibrant hues of red, blue, yellow, and white native corn were central to her family’s cooking, making this daily chore a ritual: peeling the dusty husks, slicing the kernels from the cobs, and gathering them for tortillas, atole, or tamales. This connection to corn defined her childhood: learning to cook maize for atole with her mother, grinding it into masa as a preteen, and mastering the nixtamalization of white corn for tortilla dough as a teenager.

Now, Santiago is the proud owner of two restaurants — Tierra Antigua and Cocina de Humo — located in Teotitlán del Valle, just a short drive from Oaxaca City. She takes pride in growing her family’s heirloom maize varieties for her dishes. 'These seeds have been handed down through generations,' Santiago explains. For her, cultivating native corn is a way to connect with the ancestors who followed similar traditions and harvested the same vibrant cobs. 'Planting isn’t merely labor from dawn till dusk; it’s about nurturing the earth, witnessing its growth, and sharing stories of grandparents and great-great-grandparents who once did the same,' she reflects.

Carina Santiago processes corn from Teotitlán del Valle in her restaurant's backyard. Oaxaca boasts 35 native landrace corn varieties.

Maize is the lifeblood of Mexico: No meal feels complete without a basket of fresh tortillas. Corn's prevalence in Mexican cuisine is a powerful reminder of the country's Indigenous heritage. While the exact origins of corn domestication are uncertain — having evolved from a grass-like plant called teosinte — most research attributes this to Indigenous peoples in southern Mexico, with some of the oldest corn specimens discovered in Oaxaca's caves, dating back to 4500-4200 BCE. Today, corn is integral to an ecosystem that shapes rural life across cultural, agricultural, and culinary dimensions. Farmers cultivate it using a method called milpa, which involves strategically intercropping it with beans and squash in a symbiotic trio known as the Three Sisters. For rural Mexicans, the milpa signifies the essence of farming — from preparing the land for planting to selecting seeds, fertilizing the soil, and managing pests for the ultimate corn harvest.

Despite its rich cultural importance, native or criollo corn has seen a decline in usage. In the early 1990s, government subsidies incentivized tortillerias to abandon the traditional, labor-intensive masa-making process in favor of industrial corn flour like Maseca. Around the same time, NAFTA brought an influx of cheap industrial corn from the United States, which lacks the robust flavors of heirloom varieties. This shift from diverse maize types to a single, generic strain diminishes the culinary depth of this staple. Alex Dungla, a food journalist in Mexico City and a collaborator with the Fundación Tortilla de Maiz Mexicana, points out that corn, akin to coffee or wine, possesses its own terroir. It can thrive in nearly any climate, but as it adapts to different lands, its mineral, protein, and fat content varies. 'Each variety boasts unique textures, aromas, and flavors,' Dungla explains. 'In Oaxaca, you might find a soft, very white tortilla, whereas in the Estado de México, there's a thicker, earthier blue tortilla that pairs well with barbacoa.' Corn can embody a range of profiles, from buttery to herbal, creamy to coarse, sweet to savory.

The unique textures and flavors of each corn variety determine their specific preparation methods. Most corn dishes start with nixtamalization, a process that involves cooking the corn in an alkaline solution — typically with ash or pickling lime — to soften the kernels, enhancing nutrient availability and digestibility. Each type of corn demands its own precise temperature, alkalinity level, and cooking duration. Once nixtamalized, the corn's texture might be best suited for soup, tortillas, or atole, while some varieties are best enjoyed fresh on the cob or dried for popcorn, without nixtamalization.

For many Mexicans, heirloom corn is increasingly seen as a luxury. The price of native corn is significantly higher than that of hybrid varieties: approximately 15 pesos (about 75 cents) compared to 10 pesos (around 50 cents) per kilo. Additionally, hybrid corn is more user-friendly, cooking faster and conserving gas, while being easier to grind, thus reducing the time spent making masa. As a result, producers find little motivation to keep cultivating heirloom corn species.

Today, Oaxaca stands as one of Mexico’s last bastions of native corn. Santiago is among a group of Oaxacans who view their ancestors' maize cultivation practices as essential not only to their diet and lifestyle but also to their cultural and spiritual identity. As GMO corn floods the Mexican market, they take pride in preserving both their ancestral techniques and their traditional seeds.

“When you eat native corn, you can immediately notice the tortilla has a distinct flavor and crunch,” shares Jacobo Angeles. He and his wife, María, hail from San Martín Tilcajete, Oaxaca, and have gained international recognition for their alebrijes — traditional sculptural crafts representing vibrant mythical creatures believed to guide souls in the afterlife. As their alebrijes gained popularity, they abandoned corn farming to concentrate on their art. After five years, they realized, as María puts it, that both pursuits were part of a grMytour mission: preserving the beauty of cherished cultural traditions. “We resumed farming because we understood we were neglecting our true purpose, the foundation of everything we do, which is the land,” María explains. “We began planting again, just as our parents did.”

Today, the couple cultivates up to 60 hectares of heirloom corn varieties—red, white, and yellow—each year, working alongside family and hired hands. The cycles of planting and harvesting dictate their yearly rhythm, deeply intertwined with local customs and celebrations.

Annual harvests fluctuate based on rainfall: in 2020, Jacobo and María gathered 60 tons, but a drought in 2021 reduced their yield to only 30. They are part of a local farmers’ cooperative, selling half of their harvest while keeping the rest to nourish their family and the workers at their alebrije workshop.

Estefania Alavez and her husband proudly showcase their heirloom corn varieties cultivated in San Esteban Atatlahuca.

In the town of San Esteban Atatlahuca, Oaxaca’s Sierra Mixteca, Estefania Alavez grows a vibrant assortment of native maize: red, blue, yellow, and white. She started working the fields at the age of 15. “We used to travel to another town for corn, but it took us nearly two weeks and we returned with very little,” she recalls. Now, she and her husband cultivate corn solely for their family. “I have many children and grandchildren, so I can’t sell any,” she laughs. Their diet includes criollo corn tortillas and atole daily, with tamales and pozole prepared for special occasions.

Cultivating native corn is more than just preserving a tradition; it encompasses a range of practices handed down through generations, a lifestyle increasingly endangered by global economic pressures. Jacobo Angeles notices a decline in interest among young people in learning agricultural skills from their parents. “The economic factors are impacting us,” he observes. Today, youths in San Martín Tilcajete can earn more by crafting alebrijes than by farming corn. Working in the sun can be exhausting, and maintaining the age-old traditions of the milpa demands hard labor. Yet Jacobo and other Oaxacans firmly believe it’s worth the effort. “The fields require energy. They need passion,” he insists. “That’s why I say you must fall in love with the land. What you earn doesn’t matter.”

“It’s a precious gift we have the chance to pass on to our descendants,” Santiago expresses. “This food nourishes not just the body, but the soul as well.”

Madeleine Wattenbarger is a writer and editor who splits her time between New York and Mexico City.Shava Cueva is a food and drink photographer and author, originally from Ensenada, Baja California.