The Mole Claudia Sandoval Inherited and Made Her Own

7 Minute read

14 Sep 2026

Guajillo Short Rib with Black Mole and Squash Blossom. Credit: Kiki Aranita

With 47 ingredients and three days of preparation, the chef’s family mole carries generations of memory while allowing tradition to evolve.

Of all the minor changes Claudia Sandoval has made to the mole recipe passed down through generations of women in her family, none have made the process much easier. It calls for 13 varieties of chile. Her favorite is the morita, “a tiny little chile that is smoky and sweet.” She grinds it with guajillo, mulato, pasilla, and California chiles, among others, beginning with the darker varieties and moving to the bright red ones. Together, they form the backbone of her mole. At various stages, she adds sunflower seeds, pepitas, black and white sesame seeds, golden and dark raisins, pitted prunes, cinnamon, clove, star anise, oregano, coriander seed, cumin, and nutmeg. “Not traditional,” she admits of the last ingredient. She makes the mole four times a year.

“With 47 ingredients and three days of preparation, the mole was never something made on an ordinary Tuesday. It was reserved for weddings, holidays, and the moments when generations gathered around the same table,” says Sandoval. “As a child, I remember the kitchen transforming into a place where everyone had a role. Chiles were toasted, spices ground, dried fruits charred, chocolate added at just the right moment.” She owns a fleet of spice grinders, each deployed at a different stage of the process, as well as a Vitamix, which her grandmother never would have used.

For the version she has been making for about a decade, she has updated the techniques more than the ingredients themselves. Rather than toast the spices whole, she grinds them, blooms them in oil, and then toasts them. She has personalized the ingredients, too. “First we inherit and then we innovate,” she repeats like a mantra. Instead of the Mexican chocolate tablets her grandmother would have used, she takes cacao beans, toasts them, and grinds them because they add bitter notes she cannot get from tablets.

Sandoval embraces bitterness. She calls the moles made by her grandmother and mother “safely sweet — but still well-rounded.” She uses plantains that are less ripe than the ones they would have selected because of the bitterness that greener ones impart. “Instead of changing the ingredient here, I choose when to use it.” She also makes hers without peanuts, preferring tree nuts like cashews, which can make her version accessible to some diners with peanut allergies.

“Being a chef is being in a weird space,” she says. She is tasked with preserving and honoring the dish she knew as a child, but she believes her voice can now add to the chorus of generations. “The soul of the recipe always stays intact. The ingredients, the techniques, the flavors that have been passed down — I protect those.”

And she expands them. At Justice for Migrant Women’s Raizado Festival in Aspen, Colorado, in August, Sandoval served a short rib set in a puddle of mole and draped with a zucchini blossom. It’s a presentation that her grandmother never would have come up with. “My grandmother would never have put squash blossoms with mole. Those two things never would have come together in her mind.” But she defends her decisions. “I get to add a little of my own magic, without ever losing the hands and history that taught me how to make it,” says Sandoval.

Sandoval, who has a degree in philosophy, brings a global perspective to her mole. “I think Indians and Mexicans were separated at birth. What we now call curries are different kinds of mole,” she says. “We both love heat, spices, and we’re not intimidated by putting thirty-some ingredients into a single sauce.” She sees those parallels especially clearly in culinary spaces shaped by waves of immigration.

“My grandmother and mother worked the fields after immigrating to the U.S., so I grew up understanding that every ingredient represents someone's labor. That gave me a deep respect for the land, the people who cultivate it, and the responsibility we have as chefs,” says Sandoval. “I hope my dishes create that same sense of connection, reminding people that food doesn't begin in the kitchen. It begins with the hands that grow it.”

“Every time I make it, I'm reminded that I'm not just preserving a dish. I'm preserving the hands, voices, and traditions that shaped me.”

The Chef

Claudia Sandoval is a chef, author, television host, and producer known for modern Mexican cooking rooted in her cross-border upbringing.

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About the author

Kiki Aranita is chef and owner of Poi Dog, a restaurant and catering company. She has created content and recipe-driven videos for the likes of Philadelphia Magazine, Sakara...

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