I never know what we're going to cook at Diego's.

That's part of why I love going. Our Yucatán tour always passes through Campeche, the colonial city with a vibrant market, before we drive 40 minutes north to Pomuch, a small Mayan village known for its bakery, its cuisine and its unique cemetery. Pomuch is where Chef Diego grew up. His family has welcomed us into their home more times than I can count and every time, I have no idea what we're about to make, until the day I get there.

This February, I walked through the door and they told me: Relleno Blanco Yucateco. I had never heard of this dish…

This year it was a surprise that we were making Relleno Blanco. As it turns out, there's a reason. This dish is made for weddings, baptisms and special celebrations in Campeche. We were honored.

The first step was starting the fire of our Pib. Diego and his father built a Pib, the pre-Hispanic Mayan technique of underground cooking. They stacked wood and stones in the pit and let the fire burn for a full hour, until the wood collapsed into embers and the stones glowed red with heat.

While the fire burned, we worked in the kitchen. Ground pork was mixed with diced onion, chile dulce (a sweet pepper native to the Yucatán, similar to a bell pepper) and chile X'catic, a spicy chile also native to the peninsula. Raisins, capers, more onion, salt and pepper. Diego mixed everything together by hand, wrapped the pork in cheesecloth into a round shape and set it aside.

He took his machete and cut banana leaves fresh from the garden. Washed them. Laid them into a large stainless steel box, what they call the caja, that would be our vessel underground. On one side, the wrapped pork. On the other, pieces of chicken. Then: charred garlic and charred chile X'catic straight from the coals, sliced white onion, more raisins, quartered tomatoes, black pepper, a handful of spearmint. He dissolved fresh masa in water into a thin slurry and strained it over everything, just enough to cover about a quarter of the caja. Banana leaves over the top. Lid on.

Then we buried it.

We packed the caja with sticks, then branches, then a tarp, then dirt, until no smoke could escape. Two hours, sealed underground.

When it was time to dig it up, we were all excited.

We opened the lid in the kitchen: fork-tender chicken, the masa cooked down into a rich gravy-like sauce, the tomatoes roasted into the broth, everything full of smoke and spice and that depth you only get from cooking slow and underground.

Diego's mother was making tortillas by hand over a wood fire. Some guests were using the press, but she was shaping them by feel, the way she has her whole life. We drank agua fresca made from sour oranges picked that morning from Diego's backyard tree.

It was a meal I won't forget. Not just for the food, but for the way Diego's family pulled us in. Hugs when we arrived, ice-cold beers in hand, laughter in the kitchen, all of us sitting together at the table. They didn't treat us like guests. They treated us like family.

Dreaming of going to Diego’s backyard next year. Maybe since we like this so much, maybe he will make Relleno Blanco again.

Con cariño, Kaelin