Quesadillas De Flor De Calabaza – Squash Blossoms With Cheese In Tortillas.

My primo, Roberto? He cried because I ate the last flor de calabaza quesadilla. ¡Ay Dios mío! The drama.

Back in the day, before supermarkets tried selling us everything year-round, squash blossoms were a big deal. They bloomed for a short time, which meant you had to take advantage. It wasn’t about fancy eating back then, mija, it was about using everything the land gave you. Old Mexico knew how to stretch a peso—and a squash plant.

These aren't new, understand? This dish goes WAY back. We're talking pre-Columbian times. Indigenous peoples in Mesoamerica used squash blossoms in all kinds of cooking. The Aztecs, the Mayans...they knew their flowers. When the Spanish arrived, they weren’t impressed at first – too delicate, they thought. Then someone made a quesadilla, and then they understood. ¡Andale! Even conquerors can be swayed by cheese.

It started with Abuela Elena. She had this garden (a jungle, really) where she grew everything. Tomatoes, chiles, corn…and the most beautiful yellow squash blossoms. She’d send my Tío Ricardo out to pick them early, before the sun got too hot, so they wouldn't wilt. Then, chaos. My aunts would start fighting over who got to help her make the quesadillas.

Aunt Sofia? She believed she had the "special touch" when it came to stuffing the tortillas. Too much cheese, always too much cheese. Aunt Rosa insisted on adding epazote, because “it aids digestion” (she was always side-eyeing people’s stomachs, that one). And me? I just wanted to eat them. Fast.

One year, Roberto decided he was a chef, a culinary artist. He tried to infuse the cheese with lavender. Lavender! In a quesadilla. Abuela almost hit him with the chancla, but settled for yelling. It smelled like grandma’s perfume exploded in the kitchen. Needless to say, that batch did not get eaten.

Then there was Tía Mildred. Oh, Tía Mildred. She once tried to make them with goat cheese, claiming it was "sophisticated." Sophisticated?! This is a quesadilla, not a French bistro! The whole family pretended to love it, of course. You don’t criticize Tía Mildred, understand? She remembers everything.

I remember one particularly heated competition. It was my cousin Isabella’s quinceañera. Everyone was trying to impress Abuela with their quesadilla-making skills. My aunt Catalina went full out, adding huitlacoche—corn fungus—to hers. Huitlacoche! It looked…suspicious. Like something you find growing in the back of the fridge.

Turns out, everyone else had secretly thrown their quesadillas away when Catalina wasn't looking. No one wanted to risk offending her, but also...no one wanted to eat corn fungus. Except Abuela Elena. She ate three. And then said Catalina’s were the best. Of course she did, she loved making Catalina feel special.

Last summer, I tried to recreate Abuela's recipe, thinking it would be easy. Ha! I forgot about the importance of the tortilla. They need to be warm, pliable…not stale like the ones I found in the pantry. And the blossoms? So delicate. I kept tearing them. My first few attempts looked like sad, floppy flowers stuffed into old rags.

My husband, Carlos, walked in and took one bite. He just stared at me. “It tastes like sadness,” he said. Sadness! Can you believe it? I almost threw a molcajete at him. But then I remembered Abuela, laughing while she effortlessly folded dozens of perfect quesadillas. I took a deep breath and started again. This time, I called my Aunt Rosa for advice. She reminded me that everything is better with epazote. (Even sadness, apparently.)

The key is not rushing. You gotta treat those blossoms with respect. Gently rinse them, carefully open them up, and stuff them with the right amount of cheese. Not too much, like Sofia always does. And don’t even think about lavender. Or goat cheese. Tía Mildred still talks about that incident.

Recipe

Ingredients 🌽🥘

• 24 fresh squash blossoms, gently rinsed and patted dry
• 1/2 cup Oaxaca cheese, shredded (or Monterey Jack if you can't find Oaxaca)
• 1/4 cup queso fresco, crumbled
• 1/4 cup finely chopped white onion
• 1 tablespoon epazote, finely chopped (optional, but highly recommended)
• 1/4 teaspoon salt
• 1/4 teaspoon black pepper
• 8 corn tortillas (white or yellow, 6-inch diameter)
• 2 tablespoons vegetable oil or lard, for cooking

Tools 🔪🥄

• Cutting board
• Sharp knife
• Mixing bowl
• Small spoon
• Large skillet or comal

Steps

1. In a mixing bowl, combine the Oaxaca cheese, queso fresco, white onion, epazote (if using), salt, and pepper. Mix well. This is where Sofia would add too much cheese, so be warned!
2. Gently open each squash blossom and carefully fill it with about 1-2 tablespoons of the cheese mixture. Don’t overstuff them, mija! They’ll explode when you cook them.
3. Warm the corn tortillas in a dry skillet or directly over a gas flame for a few seconds per side. They should be pliable, not crispy. Don’t let Carlos find any stale ones—you’ll hear about it.
4. Place 3-4 stuffed squash blossoms onto each warm tortilla. Fold the tortilla in half, enclosing the blossoms.
5. Heat the vegetable oil or lard in a large skillet or on a comal over medium heat.
6. Cook the quesadillas for about 3-4 minutes per side, until golden brown and the cheese is melted and gooey. Watch them closely! You don’t want burnt tortillas… or another lavender incident.
   ⏱ Timer
7. Carefully remove the quesadillas from the skillet and place them on a cutting board. Let them cool slightly before serving.

Make-Ahead / Storage

• The cheese filling can be made up to 24 hours in advance and stored in an airtight container in the refrigerator.
• Stuffed squash blossoms can be assembled up to 2 hours in advance and kept refrigerated, covered with plastic wrap.
• Leftover quesadillas can be refrigerated for up to 3 days. Reheat in a skillet or oven to crisp them up. Avoid the microwave—it makes the tortilla sad.

Side Dish Pairing

• A simple salad of jicama, orange segments, and a sprinkle of chili powder. It's light, refreshing, and provides a nice contrast to the richness of the quesadillas.
• A cool cucumber-lime agua fresca. Keeps things cool, especially if Roberto starts crying again.

Tía Mildred always decía, “Don’t you dare forget the epazote, or I’ll know.”

Keywords