Mole Magic | Magia de Mole
"A mole recipe competition brings together two stubborn women who claim their family versions are superior"
Mole Magic
Magia de Mole
The annual mole competition had a simple rule: winner takes pride. For three years, she'd won. This year, I was ending her streak.
"You again," she said when I registered.
"Me again. With my grandmother's mole negro."
"That didn't beat me last year."
"I wasn't ready last year. This year I am."
Her name was Soledad, and she was the finest cook in Oaxaca—at least according to the judges. I was second finest, and the gap burned like chile seeds.
"What's different about your recipe this time?" she asked, circling my station.
"I'm not telling you."
"Scared I'll steal it?"
"Scared you'll try to sabotage it."
"I don't need to sabotage." She smiled. "I have natural talent."
The competition was grueling—eight hours of roasting, grinding, blending. My arms ached; my patience frayed. But every time I looked up, she was looking back.
"You're watching me," I called out.
"Keeping an eye on the competition."
"Nervous?"
"Never." But something in her voice suggested otherwise.
The judges tasted both moles in silence. Agonizing silence. Then they huddled, whispered, and returned.
"We have a tie," the head judge announced.
"A tie?" We said it in unison.
"Both moles are perfect in different ways. You'll share the title."
Sharing. With her. Impossible.
"This is ridiculous," she said afterward.
"Agreed. A tiebreaker."
"When?"
"Tomorrow. My kitchen. No judges. Just us deciding who's really better."
"You're inviting me to your house?"
"For war. Not friendship."
She arrived at dawn. We cooked side by side, trading insults and ingredients.
"Your chocolate is too bitter."
"Your chiles are too mild."
"That's not how you toast seeds."
"That's exactly how you toast seeds."
But something was shifting. The insults became teasing. The rivalry became... something else.
"Taste mine," she demanded, holding out a spoon.
I tasted. It was extraordinary.
"It's... good."
"Better than good."
"Maybe." I held out my own spoon. "Try mine."
She tasted. Her eyes widened.
"That's different from yesterday."
"I added something new."
"What?"
"I'll never tell."
We ended up on the floor, surrounded by ingredients, kissing instead of competing.
"This doesn't make sense," she gasped.
"It makes perfect sense. We've been fighting for three years because the tension had nowhere else to go."
"You think?"
"I know. I've never hated anyone the way I hate you."
"That's... romantic?"
"In a messed up way. Yes."
We opened a restaurant together—her mole recipes beside mine, former rivals now partners.
"People don't understand us," she says sometimes.
"People don't need to understand."
"What do they need to do?"
"Taste the mole. That explains everything."
The annual competition ended. There was no one left to compete against us. We'd merged the best of both families and created something new.
"To rivalry," we toast every anniversary.
"To love."
"Same thing?"
"With us? Absolutely."
Mole magic—where competition becomes collaboration, and the secret ingredient is always love.