In the high-altitude kitchens of Boyacá and Santander, Colombia, there exists a delicacy so prized, so deeply embedded in the pre-Columbian soul of the nation, that it commands prices per kilo rivaling prime beef and imported seafood. Its name is at once humorous and descriptive: hormigas culonas —a colloquial term that translates to “large-bottomed ants.” To the uninitiated, the concept of eating ants might evoke a survivalist’s last resort. But to the people of the Colombian altiplano, these insects are not a curiosity; they are a seasonal ritual, an ancestral legacy, and a crunchy, savory explosion of umami and toasted maize that marks the arrival of the rainy season.
To eat one is to understand that the line between “food” and “not food” is not drawn by nature, but by culture. It challenges the squeamishness of a globalized palate and invites a deeper respect for the planet’s smallest, most industrious creatures. In a world obsessed with factory farming and monoculture, the hormiga culona remains a defiantly wild, sustainable, and delicious act of resistance. It is the taste of a place that refuses to be flattened, one crunchy, creamy, big-bottomed bite at a time. hormigas culonas
It is the queen, and only the queen, that ends up in the frying pan. After mating, the male dies. The newly fertilized queen, however, descends to the earth, sheds her wings (the scars are a mark of her new status), and begins the lonely, heroic task of digging a new nest. She will never eat again, living off the fat and protein reserves stored in that enormous abdomen—her “culona”—to produce the first generation of worker ants. It is precisely this nutrient-dense, flavor-packed abdomen that humans have learned to intercept. The capture of hormigas culonas is a form of sustainable hunting that requires deep ecological knowledge, patience, and a specific kind of courage. The harvest takes place during the first heavy rains of the season. In the towns of San Gil, Barichara, and Guanentá, entire families rise before dawn. They are not looking for the ants on the ground; they are looking for the sky. In the high-altitude kitchens of Boyacá and Santander,
She treats hormigas culonas not as a gimmick, but as a serious ingredient. In her tasting menus, they might appear as a powder dusted over Amazonian fish, as an infusion in a butter sauce for native potatoes, or simply toasted and served with a foam of cocuy (a agave spirit). She has argued passionately that the ant is a victim of “food colonialism”—the idea that only European ingredients (wheat, beef, cheese) are “real food,” while indigenous ingredients are “primitive.” By serving hormigas culonas to international diners, she reclaims their dignity. To eat one is to understand that the