I can’t stop thinking about Oaxaca, the city in Mexico we visited in November. Oaxaca — pronounced like wa-hock-a if you are a gringo — is the name of the city and the state, so you can see its versatility right off the bat. And Chef and I had somehow coerced Her Royal Highness and Odd Number AND their special peoples to join us there for a sort of tardy Thanksgiving.

In fact, Her Highness and her beau Tyler Whitefish had been to Oaxaca City a few years ago and had said something along the lines of “you guys would like this place” which we translated to “they want to travel with us!” and immediately started planning this Forced Family Fun. 

In some ways this trip was about finding my roots. You may or may not know that this part of the world is where people first started cultivating maize 6,000 years ago. Fast forward to 1966 and my mom, the Notorious Babs aka GiniJohn, was Miss Green Giant in the Miss Buhl pageant. We had a lot of access to corn on the cob when I was a wee one. The sweet kernels are in my DNA, you might say. I could digress and tell you that the corn we encountered in Oaxaca was disappointingly contaminated with mayonnaise in the concoction known as elote, but I will not. I will not because you would then not understand how incredibly enthusiastic I am about Oaxacan cuisine. Minus elote.

My problem with this elote is not the crickets on the corn, but the disgusting mayonnaise.

Many people have questioned me, Podunk, why do you go to Mexico in the winter if you do not go to the beach? This question refers to the fact that we stayed in the confines of the City for mas or menos, more or less, one week. This is partly because we were laser-focused on the food, art, and culture of the City, and partly because renting a car in Mexico scares us shitless. And the weather was tremendously pleasant — 80-ish in the afternoons, with cool mornings and nights, thanks to the mile-high elevation (or if you use the metric system— some amount of kilometers).  

But here’s a few of the reasons we’re going back:

Eats. From the most humble street cart to the Michelin star restaurant we were fortunate enough to visit, the ingredients are fresh and treated with reverence. I am a slut for a good street taco so I think back on some of those tasty el pastor morsels with much the same fondness as the fashionable and fantastic Casa Oaxaca, Quince Letras, and Levadura de Olla. We also ventured to Tlacolula (side note: another favorite part of this region is their insistence on putting T and L together at the beginning of words), to one of the oldest markets in all of Mesoamerica, famous for its traditional barbacoa made with goat. The crowded Sunday market made our herd of 7 people unwieldy, so we split up and walked away with the Tale of Two Barbacoas. Chef, Odd, Maya, and I went in one direction, enjoying our hot goat stew on a crowded picnic table with a local family; HRH and Tyler Whitefish and his mom found their own barbacoa. Their barbacoa, sadly, resulted in a few days of intestinal distress for these unfortunate members of our party. The tip off was when Tyler brought us together at our casa, saying, “I have a public service announcement. No one in this house should trust their farts.” Indeed. With travel advice like that, who needs Fodor’s?

Drink. I surprised myself by loving mezcal. We toured Dainzu, a family’s 5th-generation farm and distilling operation, and I got caught up in the story and passion for the strong liquor in much the same way I feel at a small winery. The young mezcal maestro Carlos showed us in his agave field that the first taste is poured on the ground to thank la tierra, the land. My friends with light colored carpet will attest that this is also my custom with red wine, so again, I felt very at home. We booked this tour with an English speaking guide, Veronica, and this was also a very good maneuver. My minor in Spanish makes it possible for me to translate about every 30th word, sometimes correctly and sometimes not, so I am able to deliver to my traveling companions a confusing word salad at best. We learned that mezcal is a cure for all ailments, including bad stomachs, so I actually paid for that tour using my medical savings account. Bonus!

Culture. The neighborhood we stayed in was called Jalatlaco, which some people without as much of a minor in Spanish as I have gringoed to Hella Taco. The colorful stucco buildings served as galleries for the murals in every direction. My favorite studio was the Collective Subterraneos, an edgy printmaking workshop whose creations adorned many of the neighborhood buildings. The Museum of Cultures in the city and Monte Alban, the impressive ruins dating back to 500 BC right above the city, were both mind-blowing. And then there was the luchador matches. We had never been to see the luchadores and I have to imagine our sensation was much like that of people who witness Podunk’s demolition derby for the first time. World Wrestling Federation meets Marvel Comics meets Pancho Villa. I do NOT recommend the mango chelada with the sugar straw, however.  No es bueno.

Hasta proximo, Oaxaca!