Tlacoyos – Oval Masa Cakes Stuffed With Beans Or Fava Puree.
It started with a missing eyebrow. Seriously.
Prehispanic Mexico? Forget tacos, mija. It was all about masa—corn dough. Like, the foundation. People were making tlacoyos long before Cortes showed up trying to “discover” things. They’ve been around since at least the Aztec empire, probably even earlier. These weren’t just food; they were offerings to the gods! Imagine, a beautiful oval of corn, stuffed with deliciousness, given to, like, a rain god or something. ¡Ay Dios mío! Then, when the Spanish arrived, well, they saw a good thing and added their own little twists (cheese, meat, you name it). But the basic idea, the core…the masa, stayed true. So, yeah, it's ancient. More important than whatever drama happened last week with cousin Gabriela.
We didn’t think much about the history, though. We just knew Abuelita made the best tlacoyos in the entire world, period. And every year, for Día de Muertos, she’d make a huge batch. A mountain of them, really. It was a family affair—everyone helped stuff, pinch, and cook. Except Tía Mildred. Oh, Tía Mildred. She claimed her hands were "too delicate" for masa, which is ridiculous. Delicate?! She can wrestle a runaway chihuahua, but masa is too much? She would supervise, naturally, while offering very detailed instructions about how everyone else was doing it wrong. (Her instructions usually involved more butter.)
Last year, though, was different. It started during the bean-soaking phase. I was sorting through the dried pinto beans, meticulously picking out any rocks or bad ones, and Abuelita was next to me, humming a tune. Suddenly, there was a scream. Not a little squeak, either. A full-blown, operatic scream. Everyone jumped. Even the dog hid under the table. I looked up, and there was Tía Mildred, standing perfectly still, one eyebrow completely gone. Like, vanished.
“¡Ay, Dios mío!” Abuelita exclaimed, but then she started laughing. Turns out, Tía Mildred had been inspecting the beans (you know, making sure they met her standards) when she leaned too close to the flame on the stove. The eyebrow…well, let's just say it had a moment with the fire. She insisted it “jumped off” on its own. No one believed her. She spent the rest of the day wearing a bandage shaped like an eyebrow, constantly adjusting it and complaining about how asymmetrical she looked.
The tlacoyo-making continued, despite the drama. My cousins and I tried to stifle our giggles every time we caught Tía Mildred glancing in the mirror. Abuelita kept muttering something about "divine retribution" (she’d been wanting to tell Tía Mildred off about something for weeks). And as we worked, we all remembered the time Tía Mildred tried to make flautas and somehow set off the smoke alarm five times. She swore the oil was faulty. (It wasn’t.)
The stuffing process was always chaotic. My cousin Elena likes to add extra cheese to hers—a lot of extra cheese. Abuelita always scolds her, saying, “Elena, you’ll clog your arteries! Just a little cheese, mija.” Elena pretends to listen, then adds even more cheese when no one is looking. It's a vicious cycle, really. I prefer mine with fava bean puree—it's smoother, less messy. (Less opportunity for Tía Mildred to critique my technique.)
Then there's the pinching part—forming the oval shape with the little boat in the middle for the salsa. That takes skill, mija, years of practice. You have to be gentle but firm. Too much pressure, and the filling squirts out. Not enough, and it falls apart while cooking. Tía Mildred, naturally, had opinions on this too. "You must use a circular motion! It's all about the circulation!" she declared, demonstrating with exaggerated hand gestures that only made things worse.
Once they were shaped, they went onto the comal—the flat griddle. The smell of toasted masa filled the kitchen, mingling with the aroma of simmering beans. It was heavenly. We’d cook them until they were golden brown and slightly blistered, then flip them over to finish. Abuelita always said, "A good tlacoyo should sing to you, mija." I don't know if mine ever sang, but they were always delicious. And, crucially, no eyebrows were harmed in the making of them.
This year, we’re being extra careful around the stove. Tía Mildred has vowed to stay far away from any open flames. She's taking charge of the toppings instead—cilantro, onions, queso fresco, her special spicy salsa. Which, knowing her, will be dangerously hot. She probably added a habanero just to prove she can. Carlos tried to make a comment about the eyebrow situation but was immediately shut down by a glare from Abuelita. Peace reigns…for now.
Recipe
Ingredients 🌽🥘
- 3 cups masa harina (corn flour for tortillas)
- 2 cups warm water (plus more as needed)
- 1 teaspoon baking powder
- ½ teaspoon salt
- 2 tablespoons vegetable oil
- 1 tablespoon butter, melted
- 1 cup cooked pinto beans or fava beans, mashed (or refried beans)
- ¼ cup crumbled queso fresco (optional)
- Toppings: chopped cilantro, sliced onion, crumbled queso fresco, salsa, nopales (cactus pads)
- Vegetable oil for cooking
Tools 🔪🥄
- Large mixing bowl
- Comal or large cast iron skillet
- Potato masher or fork
- Spatula
- Measuring cups and spoons
Steps
- In a large bowl, combine the masa harina, warm water, baking powder, and salt. Mix well until a dough forms. If the dough is too dry, add water one tablespoon at a time until it comes together. It should be soft but not sticky.
- Add the vegetable oil and melted butter to the dough and knead for about 5 minutes until smooth and pliable. Let rest for 15 minutes (this is where Tía Mildred would tell you to use “more butter!”).
- Divide the dough into 8 equal portions. Take one portion and flatten it slightly in your hand. Make a small indentation in the center with your thumb.
- Fill the indentation with about 2 tablespoons of mashed beans and sprinkle with queso fresco if using. (Elena adds way more cheese.)
- Carefully close the dough around the filling, pinching the edges tightly to seal. Gently shape the tlacoyo into an oval, about 4-5 inches long and 3 inches wide, with a slight ridge down the middle like a little boat.
- Repeat with the remaining dough and filling.
- Heat a comal or cast iron skillet over medium heat. Add a thin layer of vegetable oil.
- Cook the tlacoyos for about 5-7 minutes per side, or until golden brown and slightly blistered. Be careful not to overcrowd the pan—cook in batches if necessary.
- Serve immediately with your favorite toppings. (Abuelita insists on lots of cilantro.)
Make-Ahead / Storage
- You can make the masa dough ahead of time and store it in the refrigerator for up to 2 days. Wrap it tightly in plastic wrap to prevent it from drying out.
- Stuffed tlacoyos can be assembled and refrigerated for up to 4 hours before cooking.
- Leftover cooked tlacoyos can be stored in the refrigerator for up to 3 days. Reheat on a comal or in a skillet.
Side Dish Pairing
- Escabeche de nopales: pickled cactus pads—the tartness cuts through the richness of the tlacoyo perfectly.
- Sopa de calabaza: creamy pumpkin soup, seasoned with chile
de árbol, provides a comforting counterpoint. - A simple salsa roja: because everything is better with a good salsa!
“A tlacoyo a day keeps the sadness away,” Abuelita always said.
