As you already know, I grew up in Mexico—land of family, flavor, and yes… crickets. Chapulines are my kind of snack. My tío would show up with bags of roasted crickets seasoned with salt, lime, and chili, and the whole family would gather around like it was movie night with popcorn.
There’s a trick, though: just like snails, you never eat chapulines the day they’re harvested. No, no. You let them cleanse themselves first—otherwise you end up with a funky aftertaste that nobody wants. Once they’re properly prepared, they’re delicious: tangy, earthy, full of umami, and wonderfully crunchy.
Every time I go home, while most people in the U.S. grab candy and chips for a road trip, I’m holding a bag of roasted crickets. Protein? Check. Flavor? Check. A taste of home? Absolutely.
I know people in the U.S. often find this strange, but honestly, it’s all about perspective. If folks realized crickets taste a bit like shrimp, they might be more open to them. It makes sense: crickets and shrimp are both arthropods and share proteins like tropomyosin. That’s why their flavor profiles overlap—nutty, earthy, slightly briny. A perfect shrimp substitute, in my book.
My husband swears he’s allergic to shrimp, and trust me, as someone allergic to tree nuts, I take allergies very seriously. My daughter is allergic to practically everything. But he has eaten crickets while traveling with me, and not a single reaction. (I am not a doctor, so please do not take this as medical advice—just an amused observation.)
Now, if we’re talking insects from home, my brother is team jumiles—tiny stink bugs from the mountains of Mexico, packed with iron and a very distinctive flavor. I grew up watching my family eat them live. They would dip their fingers into a glass where the jumiles were kept—always with a ring of oil at the top so the bugs couldn’t escape. The moment you dip your finger in, they crawl up, and you pop them into your mouth while they make their brave march toward your molars. Yes, I know. Sounds intense. And it is. But they’re delicious. Some people add them to salsa to deepen the flavor, though I prefer them fresh and… lively.
The first time I took my husband to Mexico, I insisted he try chapulines. To my surprise—and delight—he loved them. This man has won my heart in countless ways, but his fearless love of food may be near the top of the list. He still refuses to try jumiles, but that’s a battle for another day.
I’m not writing this just to talk about “unusual foods.” I’m writing because chapulines aren’t unusual to me. They’re a reminder of who I am. They carry the flavor of my childhood and the traditions of indigenous communities who have harvested, prepared, and sold them for generations. When I buy chapulines at local markets back home, I’m supporting those communities and feeding myself in more ways than one—nutritionally, emotionally, culturally.
This is ancestral food. Protein my people have always known. Food my DNA recognizes. Food that feeds me—energy-wise and soul-wise.
So if you ever get the chance to try chapulines, escamoles, or maguey worms, do it. Be open. Taste something new. You don’t have to love it, but you might surprise yourself. And your senses—and your spirit—will thank you for the adventure.
Mesa Confession:
After I moved to the U.S., my parents developed a tradition—let’s call it their own little test. Every time I brought a significant other home to visit, the moment they picked us up from the airport, they’d whisk us straight to a local Mexican restaurant. Not the touristy kind—the real-deal spots where you can try chapulines, jumiles, maguey worms, escamoles… all the delicacies of home.
Looking back, I’m convinced this was their way of checking if the poor soul was worthy. A cultural compatibility test, served with lime, chili, and a side of nervous sweating.
I didn’t bring many partners home—but the few who made the trip all passed the test.
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