It’s a cold December afternoon when we arrive at the headquarters of Tamales de Tia Tila in San Gabriel Etla, about 45 minutes outside of Oaxaca City. Knocking on the door, we catch a whiff of spices and corn that the cold wind quickly steals away. But as soon the door swings open, revealing a family with faces half-covered in masks and hands busy at work, waves of warm, fragrant air envelope us. The tamal workshop is brimming: a man is moving stews, a woman pressing dough, an older woman laying corn husks and banana leaves on one of the many tables. Everyone’s movements are so precise and focused that we feel guilty for intruding. But that feeling fades away when a young girl waves us in and brings over a cup of hot coffee.

It is 6:30 pm – the workday of most of the taco, quesadilla and memela vendors in the city is over, but “The Artist’s” shift has just begun. Every day, as the dusk light bathes the streets, 34-year-old Caleb Santiago sets up his food cart right below the centuries-old clock that overlooks the corner of 5 de Mayo and Murguía. By 7:00 pm, he is ready for another night of juicy hamburgers and hot dogs. Among all the late-night hamburger stalls sprawled across the city, Caleb’s is something else. Initially known as just “Cangreburgers,” this little SpongeBob Squarepants-inspired cart has been feeding Oaxacans for the last 16 years.

Growing up in Oaxaca, la gelatina rosita (“pinkish jelly”) was a biweekly ritual – every other Saturday, our mother would return from the market with this special dessert. It was so ingrained in our routine that we couldn’t imagine life without it. In fact, on a family trip to Mexico City, we were shocked to learn that gelatina rosita wasn’t readily available. Did they know what they were missing? It was only when we were older did we learn the proper name of this precious Oaxacan specialty: nicuatole. Some say its etymology can be traced back to Nahuatl (one of the many Indigenous languages spoken in ancient Mexico), specifically the words necuatl (“agave honey”) and atolli (“liquid corn”). While this may be true, it doesn’t quite portray what nicuatole is, not really.