Chicatana June 12, 2022
“I’d never eat a bug.”
David Lynch, final line of Blue Velvet
This early Saturday morning is sunny and mild, almost devoid of car traffic. On the damp cobblestone outside the 17th-century Templo de Santo Domingo de Guzmán, there is an old woman who appears dressed for church, reaching down to pick up small items with her bare hand, placing them in a bag that is held by a well-dressed boy, who holds his other hand with his mother’s. She, too, scours the street for tiny debris and drops each piece into his plastic bolsita.
We wonder why they are gathering such insignificant detritus from a city street, no less, with their bare hands. Is this some kind of Catholic service project? It is just then we notice that the bag is moving, the contents within crawling. Moreover, there are other people on the rain-soaked street performing the very same activity. Vanessa soon learns that this exercise only occurs in June, at the beginning of the wet season, when the male ants of Oaxaca, the Chicatanas, emerge for their decidedly non-Catholic mating rituals.
This collecting, as it turns out, is no beautification project—the Oaxaqueños are foraging for a traditional salsa ingredient. One woman reaches into her own bag, over half-filled, and proudly raises a handful of the crawling creatures. They are enormous, almost an inch long. Most of the males have already lost their wings, which are approximately as long as my pinky finger, signifying that their search for an eligible queen has necessarily narrowed to those they might reach by walking. Those that have died in vain, and there are many, crushed under foot or tire, are left where they lie flattened. Only the living ones are suitable for the recipe, and they will be kept that way until they are finally scorched on the griddle.
Young Constanza, a pre-teen who claims to have no use for her science classes at school, nevertheless demonstrates a detailed knowledge of Chicatana anatomy. She picks up a freshly snatched one from the weathered stone and delicately places it in my reluctant hand, squeezing the abdomen only slightly to elicit the insect’s benign response. This is the only part of the animal that will be eaten, she explains. The head and thorax will be discarded after roasting. I am hardly reassured that the supposed delicacy, described as bitter and salty, will be more appetizing with the knowledge that only the buttocks is consumed. Regardless, the final product will be ground with mortar and pestle and added to the Oaxaqueño spicy sauce, just like grandma remembers. Young Constanza strokes the body of her squirming specimen with familial affection.
Insects in general are prized in the sophisticated cuisine of Oaxaca. Ordering any dish labeled “Oaxaqueño” at a restaurant almost guarantees that Chapulines (roasted crickets) will be a part of the serving, and this peculiar culinary ingredient, along with a slice of orange, also represents the national standard for garnishing a shot of mezcal, the iconic native distillate of this state. However, given Vanessa’s aversion to insects, especially ants, our tastebuds may be slow to appreciate their sublime value. Of course, in a world of dwindling food resources, the potential for exploiting the many arthropods roaming our city may represent an opportunity for the planet’s future, just as it symbolizes Oaxaca’s illustrious indigenous past.
Constanza only shrugs at my scholarly encouragement of her endeavors. With her polished jackboots and punk hairstyle, she is still practicing at being a cosmopolitan adolescent in a city beyond my comprehension. She is extraordinarily articulate in English. At the moment, she is indeed perhaps too cool for school. She is absolutely too cool for the likes of me. But the academic world, myself included, I hope, may yet catch up to her. If given the chance, there is much to learn here, about life and the example of the Chicatana, and it only requires the wisdom of a science department somewhere to see the profoundly personal and unique experience this student of nature has to offer.