In the 1940s, the first kaffir lime tree grown in the United States was found in a collection at the University of California. It had been smuggled into the country years earlier past government restrictions, and for many decades, Thai immigrants in the area drove in small groups to collect the leaves of this makrut. The Thai people have always gone to great lengths to preserve their cuisine’s authenticity—it simply doesn’t do to substitute ingredients for domestic counterparts. Likewise, the Northern Thai found richness in everything around them: the spices in their gardens, the game in the forest, and even household pests. Northern Thai cuisine proves that resourcefulness is key to seeking out intense, unique flavors­—especially when isolated in the mountains.

     The hilly terrain of Northern Thailand makes traditional agriculture difficult, to say the least. Though the land is fertile and modestly supplied by local rivers, three-quarters of it remains covered by forest. Slash-and-burn techniques are slow-going here, and whatever land is made available is instantly snatched up to grow opium poppies and starchy, flavorless vegetables. Even without an incentive to export, slash-and-burn agriculture has always been treated this way. The newly-cleared land is simply unsuitable for growing rice. Rice is instead grown on whatever flat land is available, and whenever the seasons are expected to be gentle. A dichotomy has been established: flat land and rain, rice; otherwise, starches.

Though necessary for survival, these practices made for bland food. Land being a precious commodity, the Northern Thai have turned to their own backyards for their cuisine’s creative spark. Their migration from southern China brought hardy vegetables such as gai lan and napa cabbage—vegetables that require little water and thrive indoors and out. Herbs such as chili and galangal were already growing in the forests, and the native fruit grew on small, low-hanging trees. With some work and a few green thumbs, each village transformed into a garden of Eden—a diversity of delectable ingredients at the tips of their fingers.

These ingredients solidified Northern Thai cuisine’s reputation as a clash of intensities on the tongue. After all, what is sweeter than sugarcane? What is spicier than a raw chili pepper? Is there anything more sour than a juicy wedge of lime? Whereas many herbs have their flavors enhanced through cooking, the Northern Thai found themselves avoiding these methods, as they only dulled the zest of their dishes. Instead, they put nature’s bounty directly from earth to mouth. They ate what they grew with little interference from the kitchen.

My tha (my grandfather) eats garlic cloves the same way one eats a clementine. He scoops up nam ngio with fresh Thai basil. One might think this stems from laziness, or a desire for immortality (he’s seventy-five years old yet boxes like he’s twenty). But when asked directly about his eating habits, he just smiles and laughs—as if we are fools. “Aloi clap. It’s delicious,” he says. That’s the only reason he needs.

     This drive for naturally powerful flavors encouraged the Northern Thai to seek out saltiness and umami (or “meatiness”) from unnatural sources. Already they were raising chickens and pigs, feeding them with food waste and table scraps. It was only a matter of time before they wondered what brains might taste like—if livers could be cooked and if blood could enhance their stews. If they were going to raise sloppy, resource-intensive livestock, why not find use every cut?

This mentality has led the Northern Thai to define meat more liberally. They are less concerned with specific cuts as they are with texture and flavor. In their slang, there is little differentiation between chicken thigh and drumstick and leg quarter—they are all gai. Each one is prepared similarly, either by boiling or roasting, and then shredding. However, the parson’s nose is high in fat and very chewy, and is always referred to as tut gai. Every conventional cut of pork a Westerner would be familiar is put under the umbrella term mu, but not the offal nor the skin nor the ears. These prized pig parts are uniquely delicious, and fetch a higher market price.

However, experiments with livestock only partially satisfied this curiosity. Villagers took to the Mekong River and its neighbors; instead of fish they caught frogs and baby shrimp, saltier and easier to spice than adults. They hunted boar for its gamey protein—in the wild, it essentially raised itself to be eaten.

Dangerous pests too fell under the knife. Venomous snakes were beheaded and de-scaled and cut into pieces—naturally fragrant and spicy, if a little tough. Ant eggs were dug out from their nests and fried—little sweet-and-sour beads like caviar. Wasp larvae were steamed in their nests and plucked out and eaten—greasy, but with a texture like chicken.

I remember touring my family’s rice paddies with my brothers, carrying large empty rice sacks. We were to collect paddy crabs from the farmers. These crabs feed on the rice they grew, but can be easily seen and caught in the shallow murky water. They were incredibly small, with claws no thicker than my pinky, yet my yai (my grandmother) made a feast out of them. The claws and legs she battered and fried, the keratin adding crunch rather than get stuck between teeth. The steamed innards we scooped out with sticky rice. I remember how creamy they were, with just a hint of sweetness. I was amazed at how something so tasty could come out of something so small.

Even retired water buffalo found their place on the dinner table. Though the meat is too tough and gamey for cooking, the cartilage and tendon surrounding the hooves are soft. Matched with garlic, cilantro, and a spicy broth, yam tin kwai is created. Though foreigners might be concerned by a hoof floating in their soup (much more noticeable than a fly), yam tin kwai is a testament to Northern Thai cuisine. Meat is taken and transformed. It is paired with herbs and spices and made into something entirely new and palatable.

     My experience with yam tin kwai occurred last summer in the Muslim district of Chiang Mai. There the streets were sleepy even in the middle of the day. By then I was fully indoctrinated into the “weirdness” of the local cuisine. I had eaten snake and insect brood and durian (which I personally felt was the most awful of the three). Even without knowing the language I had found my Thai heritage through my gut. However, sitting there in this hole in the wall, trying to dig the meat off this hoof (which had been through the stinking mud of how many rice paddies), my past repulsion almost overtook me. It would be easy for me to dismiss Thai cooking as lazy, given how little preparation is done with food. It is tempting to call raw napa leaves a “poor Chinese salad”, or write fried crickets and beetles off as a shock factor without real culinary value.

However, the Northern Thai people are not that simple-minded. They do not carve the bones clean, nor do they eat fruit skins or stems—something must feed the pigs. In fact, these people are incredibly picky about what they eat. They will not eat anything that does not wow their taste buds. They only eat what can be made explicitly delicious. It just so happens that they are surrounded by delicious food.

I did eat the yam tin kwai. In fact, I drained the bowl, to my family’s distress. It was rich and spicy and light and minty. It is a taste I can remember clearly six months later.

Just like the leaves of the university makrut, Northern Thai food had humble beginnings, and even in modern times has made a minimal impact on international cuisine; yet its style goes against a chef’s sensibilities. Complex dishes are made from the relationships between fresh ingredients, sometimes without any preparation, sometimes with unusual ingredients. What began as a quest for flavors has become a stalwart tradition barely changed over the course of centuries. The villages of Northern Thailand are abundant with culinary richness, though it takes a willing tongue to discover it.