Taste of Mexico: Calabaza en tacha

For me, the most exciting time of the year has already begun. Maybe it’s just a personal
illusion, but I swear the world feels different as the air cools, the light softens and the
collective mood shifts toward celebration. First comes Día de Muertos, then my birthday,
and finally Christmas. I can’t stop working, of course, but something inside me softens.
My mind starts to drift toward home, toward the people and scents that built the
architecture of my memory.

If I had Marcel Proust’s talent, I would write my own “In Search of Lost Time,” except
instead of madeleines, the trigger would be the smell of piloncillo and cinnamon — those
dark, honeyed notes that mean comfort, warmth and belonging. They take me back to
my grandmother’s kitchen, where she’d ask me to sing while she worked, just to make
sure I was still alive somewhere nearby. To afternoons when I’d sit coloring at the
kitchen table while my mother helped my sister with her homework. To the sound of my
father in the next room, rehearsing the lines of a play he’d perform that evening.

The scent of piloncillo and cinnamon, sometimes mixed with the marigolds of Día de
Muertos, sometimes with the resinous pine of Christmas. To me, happiness, safety, and
the feeling of being home smell exactly like that — like caramelized sugar and spice
suspended in the air.

Calabaza en tacha

That’s why I think of calabaza en tacha as the dish that announces this season of
memory. It’s the first recipe of autumn in Mexico, the moment when piloncillo and
cinnamon return to the pot.

Archaeologists tell us that pumpkins were the first domesticated plant in the Americas,
cultivated some 10,000 years ago in what is now Oaxaca. Every part of the plant
was useful, but the seeds — rich in protein and easy to store — were treasured. Over
time, people began experimenting with the flesh itself, learning to sweeten and preserve
it using the sap of the maguey. That was the earliest version of what we now know
as calabaza en tacha, meaning pumpkin cooked with lime and maguey syrup.

Then came the Spanish, and with them, sugarcane. In the 16th century, sugar
production flourished in the valleys of Morelos and Puebla. The juice of the cane was
boiled in great copper cauldrons until thick and dark, then poured into wooden molds
where it crystallized. Those cauldrons were called tachos, and the dark sugar they
produced — piloncillo — became the soul of countless Mexican sweets.

The pumpkin, cooked in the tacho itself, inherited the name. Traditionally, the chunks
were placed in a basket woven from palm leaves and set inside the pot, allowing them
to steam gently in the syrup. Over generations, the dish became a staple of Día de
Muertos, both for practical and symbolic reasons. It’s pumpkin season, yes — but it’s also
a food that stands between worlds, a sweet offering for the living and the dead.

The modern stove

These days, you don’t need a sugar mill or a week’s worth of patience to
make calabaza en tacha. Modern kitchens have simplified what was once an alchemical
process. All you need is a pumpkin, some piloncillo, and a few aromatics like cinnamon,
star anise or orange peel. In some parts of Mexico, cooks still soak the pumpkin in
lime water so it holds its shape. But personally, I like it soft, almost collapsing into a
purée.

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Here’s the version that lives in my kitchen:

Traditional Calabaza en Tacha

(Serves 6–8 people)

Ingredients

• 3–4 pounds of calabaza de Castilla (or butternut/kabocha squash)
• 1 pound of piloncillo (2 medium cones)
• 8 cups of water
• 2–3 sticks of cinnamon
• 2 star anise
• 3–4 whole cloves
• 1 orange, sliced (optional)
• Guavas or tejocotes (optional, for regional variation)

Preparation

1. Prepare the pumpkin. Wash it well and cut into large pieces — about 3 to 4
inches each. No need to peel. The rind keeps the flesh intact as it cooks.
2. Make the syrup. In a large pot, combine the water, piloncillo, cinnamon, anise,
cloves and orange slices. Bring to a boil over medium-high heat, stirring until
the piloncillo dissolves. The kitchen should smell like home.
3. Cook the pumpkin. Arrange the pieces in the pot, skin-side down for the first
layer, skin-side up for the next. Cover and cook over low heat for 40–60 minutes,
turning occasionally. The pumpkin is ready when a knife slips in easily.
4. Reduce the syrup. Remove the pumpkin and let the syrup thicken for another
10–15 minutes until it coats the back of a spoon. Pour over the pumpkin. For a
caramelized finish, bake briefly at 400 degrees Fahrenheit.

Serve warm, at room temperature, or even cold with milk or a scoop of vanilla ice
cream. In Puebla, they add fig leaves and tejocotes; in Michoacán, chunks of
sugarcane; in Oaxaca, guavas. The recipe migrates and adapts, but the essence
remains the same: sugar, spice and memory.

Amigos, a single bowl of calabaza en tacha carries an entire season’s worth of nostalgia.
It’s the flavor of late October, of early darkness, of orange marigolds glowing in the
dusk. When I make it, I like to think the scent might reach those who are no longer
here — the ones who taught me to sing in the kitchen, who rehearsed lines in the next
room.

Every family has a smell that anchors them to time. Mine is cinnamon
and piloncillo. What’s yours?

María Meléndez is a Mexico City food blogger and influencer.