No One Wants to Dig for Worms Anymore

“Oh,“Oh, look, this one is hiding,” exclaims Isela Islas Montiel as she probes into the tiny burrows at the base of a decaying agave leaf. Like children at play, we watch as the vibrant cherry-red chinicuil worms, the larvae of the Comadia redtenbacheri moth, are extracted from their concealment. “They feed on the magueys, targeting the weakest and smallest,” Montiel explains, delicately pulling the worms from their tunnels using the pointed end of a maguey leaf. Taking care not to harm the worms, she places them one by one into a cone made from a fresh agave leaf.

The sky is a crisp, clear blue on the Saniz farm in the far northwestern corner of Mexico’s Tlaxcala state, where Montiel and her husband Alejandro Sánchez Acosta cultivate wheat, corn, and barley alongside their main crop, agave, primarily used for producing pulque from fermented sap. The morning rain has finally stopped, and sunlight sparkles off the expansive countryside visible from the farm’s elevated position. Surrounding us are rows of agaves, also known as maguey, their graceful leaves arching upwards before succumbing to their own weight. The Saniz farm is home to 12,000 agave plants; 40,000 if you include hijuelos, the young magueys.

We’ve come to dig for worms, but this isn’t merely a tourist attraction; these little critters are vital to various regional dishes. “In reality, they’re an infestation,” Montiel states, “but one that’s edible.” Each September, as the larvae emerge, Acosta and Montiel gather them by the handful, not only for their distinct smoky, oily flavor but also because harvesting and consuming the worms is an essential part of their family’s traditional diet. They fry the worms in their own fat to prepare them for grinding into salsa or using as a topping for a dish Acosta describes as the perfect remedy for a hangover: “It’s a stew made with a wild green called malva. We cook it with squash blossoms, zucchini, raw fava beans, and then add the worms on top. Pair that with a glass of pulque, and you’re all set.”

Chinicuiles prepared for salsa in a molcajete. Mixiote. Alejandro Sánchez Acosta surveying his agave field.

“One of the most common ways to use chinicuiles is by making the renowned and traditional worm salt,” explains Irad Santacruz Arciniega, a local chef in Tlaxcala, who emphasizes that insect consumption has been a part of the Mesoamerican diet for at least a thousand years. “Another method is simply to fry or toast them in their own fat, place them in a tortilla, and create a taco. Some people prepare salsas de chinicuiles or salsa borrachas with tomatillos, onion, chile, and occasionally pulque.”

Many chefs, like Santacruz, appreciate the culinary potential of chinicuiles. Their interest stems from two reasons: showcasing an endemic ingredient that highlights traditional cooking and incorporating the worms into innovative dishes to impress and surprise diners. While chinicuiles may not yet be available at your neighborhood taco stand, they are gaining attention in the more avant-garde kitchens of the country. “In some restaurants, I’ve seen them used as garnishes on guacamole or mixed into butter, and there are places using them in desserts, combined with chocolate in bonbons—that's a new way to enjoy them,” Santacruz notes. The worms align with modern dining trends as well. “The rise of mezcal has made the consumption of chinicuiles fashionable, as the best pairing for a good mezcal is with worm salt,” Santacruz adds. “Moreover, they’re considered a superfood, like all insects, valued for their nutritional benefits. I believe there’s a growing popularity for eco-friendly foods and ingredients that are free from chemicals and pesticides.”

Despite the increasing popularity of chinicuiles among chefs, many farmers are losing interest in both the worms and the traditional harvesting methods they signify. Montiel and Acosta have memories of their families cultivating and processing agave in this area for generations. Nearby, the Tecoaque archaeological ruins provide evidence that people in this region have been processing agave and drinking pulque for over a thousand years. “In this town, everyone was a tlachiqueros,” the Nahuatl term for pulque makers. “Everyone knew how to scrape the plants. Everyone produced pulque. But that generation is fading away,” Acosta laments. “There are only a few of us left who understand how to work with maguey. Unfortunately, young people aren’t interested in learning. This work of growing maguey will eventually vanish.” Currently, there are only three local farms still cultivating agave in addition to Saniz.

Harvesting chinicuil worms is a labor-intensive process. Farmers identify infested plants by their yellowing leaves, extract them from the soil, carefully crack open the roots, and retrieve the worms that have burrowed into the base. During our search, Montiel and I discover about 20 chinicuil worms from two plants—enough for a salsa, but not much more. If the worms need to be stored for later, they can be sautéed and kept in the fridge or frozen, as keeping them alive for more than a few hours is nearly impossible.

The hunt for worms is just one phase in the decades-long journey of planting, cultivating, and harvesting maguey. The plants reproduce asexually by producing hijuelos, which must be replanted to grow a new generation. Once the plants reach about four years of age, they can be pruned for pencas—freshly cut, slightly toasted maguey leaves that envelop chunks of lamb or goat meat to create soft, buttery barbacoa. The farm carefully harvests pencas to preserve each plant’s integrity as it grows. They can also collect a waxy membrane that covers the leaves, known as mixiote, which is used in a dish of the same name consisting of small steamed packets of meat and chile sauce. Once the agaves are 10 to 12 years old, Acosta “neuters” the plant by removing its heart and scrapes the cavity for several months to produce aguamiel—the plant's sap, or “honey water.” This can be enjoyed fresh, boiled into agave honey (as Montiel does), or fermented into pulque. After the plant dies, its remains aren’t wasted; the Saniz farm uses the dried leaves and piñas for firewood, animal feed, or organic fertilizer.

All this effort doesn’t bring immediate profit. While potential customers do reach out to Acosta, they often fail to grasp the value of the worms and the labor involved. “A guy from Monterrey called me asking, ‘Do you have chinicuiles?’ I replied, ‘Yes, they cost 2,500 pesos,’ or about $150,” Acosta remembers. “He was shocked: ‘What? No way! I’ll give you 800 pesos.’ I told him, ‘Then go find them elsewhere.’” The worms are far from a stable income source for the farm.

“In Tlaxcala, one of the most revered dishes is a mole, renowned not only for its flavor but also for its cost due to the significant amount of worms required,” Santacruz explains. However, the chef embraces this fact wholeheartedly. The worms' rarity and price stem from their seasonal availability, typically found in limited supply from mid-August to the end of September. “This surge in popularity allows people like Montiel and Acosta to charge a more reasonable price, but we must continue educating others that trends can lead to overproduction or exploitation. Overconsumption can disrupt the ecosystem. It’s fantastic that more people are trying them, but we need to approach it thoughtfully,” he adds.

Acosta and Montiel hope that visits like ours will bring in some additional income. Even if the worms don’t generate significant profit, they serve as a powerful symbol for agave farming, enhancing its reputation. This recognition may also inspire local residents to appreciate the broader benefits of maguey beyond quick financial gain.

Locals report feeling pressured by larger economic forces to abandon agave farming and pulque production. Some are tempted to clear agave fields for faster-yielding crops like barley and genetically modified corn. Acosta and Montiel have heard of others removing land to create pathways for gas pipelines that crisscross the area. Acosta believes many in the community think agave farming is no longer viable and consider it socially inferior. “They perceive it as degrading,” he states.

“They see it as akin to slave labor,” Montiel adds. “[They ask], why would I want to be a tlachiquero? There’s a sense of shame associated with this work.”

This issue extends beyond cultural heritage. Montiel and Acosta have witnessed the effects of deforestation on the local ecosystem throughout their lives. As he surveys the extensive rows of agave, Acosta explains that without these plants, the soil would quickly erode due to strong winds and heavy rains from May to October. He gestures towards barren patches in the distance where magueys have been removed. The quick-growing crops that have taken their place, such as barley and corn, lack drought resistance and fail to enrich the soil.

A bottle of pulque alongside a flowering agave plant. Isela Islas Montiel.

“Maguey combats climate change,” asserts Montiel. “It endures drought, enriches the soil with vital nutrients, and converts carbon dioxide into oxygen more effectively than trees.”

Laura Trejo Hernández, a researcher from Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México studying agave biodiversity in Tlaxcala, notes that magueys also offer habitats for reptiles, amphibians, insects, and mushrooms. They form protective barriers around crops, preventing grazing animals from causing damage, and act as windbreaks. “[Cutting down] agaves leads to a decline in biodiversity and essential ecosystem services that enhance the quality of life for humans and other species,” Trejo explains. “They hold immense ecological significance in both wild and traditional agricultural contexts.”

Some farmers resort to insecticides to combat pests like the maguey weevil, which can ruin entire crops. However, Acosta points out that these weevils have only become an issue because farmers used to harvest their larvae, known as nixtamal worms, for food, just as they do with chinicuil worms. Very few people continue this practice today.

“If I were to use insecticides and herbicides,” Acosta remarks, “we wouldn’t find any [worms] on the land at all.”

Montiel adds, “And that’s despite having neighbors nearby [using insecticides] whose chemicals drift into the air.” However, insecticides also harm vital pollinators like bees, which Acosta and Montiel emphasize are crucial not only for maguey but for the overall ecosystem, including their other crops.

Although agaves can reproduce asexually via hijuelos, they can also reproduce sexually if allowed to flower. “I leave some plants to bloom, like that one over there starting to rise,” Acosta points to a crooked agave flower stem reaching skyward. “[It’s] for the bats and the bees. Pollination is essential.” This cross-pollination enhances biodiversity and results in more resilient plants that can better withstand diseases and pests. “People think I’m completely nuts, but we’ve revived the fauna here. There was nothing before.”

When the sun reaches its peak, we sit down to enjoy pork and chicken mixiotes, tacos made from the heart of agave, and salsa crafted from chinicuil worms. The flavors instantly transport me back to evenings spent sipping mezcal and savoring orange slices sprinkled with worm salt in Mexico City. The mixiote boasts a rich pasilla chile essence, and the meat is so tender it falls off the bone, with the mixiote membrane adding just a touch of earthiness. Montiel shares tangy requesón cheese drizzled with agave honey for dessert.

In front of a mixiote or taco draped in smoky salsa, at one of the last agave farms in the region, Montiel and Acosta's deep appreciation for chinicuiles—despite the effort they demand—becomes clear. The worms are merely a small facet of the maguey's life and a tiny piece of the plant's culinary contributions. They serve as both a nuisance and a valuable resource, vital to local ecology and regional cuisine. Without dedicated farmers like Montiel and Acosta, who choose to harvest rather than eradicate them, this unique flavor could vanish from the Mexican culinary landscape. That would be unfortunate and part of a slippery slope: neglecting even seemingly harmful pests can lead to the loss of numerous benefits for the land, ecosystem, and culture.

As Cruz states, “I believe people are becoming more conscious about what they consume. This simple act of reflecting on our food choices is guiding us toward making better dietary decisions.”

Lydia Carey is a freelance writer and author of Mexico City Streets: La Roma. Sergio Henao is the owner of Bolero Basement Cafe and sometimes captures photos as Carey’s assistant. Both are based in Mexico City.