I 'Decolonized' My Diet for Seven Days and Here's What Happened

“Decolonizing your diet is also the stories of your family and your roots in Mexico,” she says. “We engage the elements and ingredients to really trigger these memories.”

I roasted the poblano chiles on the open flames of my stove and prepared them to be a cocoon for a mix of quinoa, radicchio, and butternut squash. They became blistered and emitted a tangy scent, one that I imagine wafted through my grandmother’s kitchen too.

I topped my chiles with goat cheese and pomegranate, as directed in the DYD cookbook, giving it a bright coloring, then made the diet's watermelon, cucumber, and lemon agua fresca by putting those three ingredients in a blender. Hydrating is always a good idea, and if my ancestors did so with a delightful fruity beverage, then so be it.

I sent my mom a photo of my chile relleno, explaining the diet experiment. She gave me an encouraging “Que rico!” and then applauded my decision to cleanse my colon—evidently misunderstanding “de-colon-izing.”

Day 3: Time for a Workout

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In the modern—and colonized—world, food preparation has been simplified to accommodate our busy lives. Constantly juggling freelance assignments means I live on Blue Apron, toast and hard-boiled eggs, and, regrettably, McDonald’s number-two value meals when I’m on the road (which is often).

The decolonized diet calls for engaging in the process of growing and preparing food, so I’d really need to change the amount of thought (and effort) I put into eating. Aguilar, for example, grinds her own corn by hand. “It’s about being intentional about centering food in our lives,” she says.

I decided to push myself by making red pipián, a smokey, spicy, mole-like sauce that’s a traditional Mayan dish and, quite frankly, a bit of a beast to wrestle.