Steam rises from the pot like an invisible hymn. On the table, radishes cut into flowers, freshly chopped lettuce, ground oregano, and crispy tostadas wait their turn. It is September in Mexico and, along with the Cry of Independence, another tradition fills kitchens across the country: pozole.
From the Náhuatl word pozolli —“foamy”—this dish was born long before the tricolor flag existed. Researchers from Mexico’s National Institute of Anthropology and History (INAH) recall that in pre-Hispanic times it was offered to the god Xipe Tótec as a symbol of fertility and regeneration. As cacahuazintle maize kernels opened like white flowers in the pot, they seemed to invoke the abundance of the land.
Colonial chronicles written by Spanish friars describe a ritual dish that combined corn with meat. Some texts even mention human flesh during ceremonial practices, while other, more widely accepted versions point to the xoloitzcuintle, a sacred dog raised for ritual consumption. With the arrival of the Spanish, pork became the central ingredient, and pozole evolved into the mestizo recipe we know today.
Every spoonful tells a different story depending on the region. In Guerrero, green pozole with pumpkin seeds, tomatillos, and epazote is a point of pride. In Jalisco, red pozole gets its color from guajillo and ancho chiles. In central Mexico, white pozole preserves the most traditional form, topped with radishes, onion, and ground chile piquín.
On the Pacific coast, in Colima, Jalisco, and Nayarit, the sea makes its way into the pot with shrimp, scallops, fish, and octopus. And for those who don’t eat meat, vegetarian versions with mushrooms and oyster mushrooms simmer in broths flavored with laurel, garlic, and dried chiles.
“Pozole is not just one dish: it’s many Mexicos in a single pot,” says food historian José Iturriaga de la Fuente.
Pozole doesn’t just feed families—it drives local economies. According to Mexico’s Ministry of Agriculture and Rural Development (Sader), consumption of cacahuazintle corn in Mexico City alone exceeds 5,000 tons each September, when kitchens prepare for Independence Day celebrations.
In markets and food stalls, the bustle is unmistakable: giant pots simmer over flames, mountains of fresh radishes pile up, and tortilla shops see long lines. “On the 15th and 16th, no diet counts. If there’s no pozole, there’s no party,” says Doña Carmen, a market cook who serves up to 300 bowls on the night of the Grito.
Identity in a Bowl
Beyond the recipe, pozole is a symbol of identity. It unites generations around the table, where grandparents recall how it was made “back on the ranch,” children reach for the biggest tostada, and someone inevitably argues whether red, green, or white is best.
Food historian Ricardo Muñoz Zurita sums it up: “Pozole is one of the most democratic dishes in Mexico: it’s served at family banquets, local fairs, and luxury restaurants. It has Indigenous roots, Spanish influences, and the hands of peasant farmers behind every kernel of corn.”
In each bowl, something more than broth and corn is served: history, family, and belonging. Pozole is living memory that transcends myths and becomes a celebration. It is the aroma wafting through the streets on the night of the Grito, the spoonful that warms on a cold day, and a tribute to the Mexican countryside, where its ingredients are born.
Ultimately, pozole is not only a national delicacy—it is the portrait of a country that simmers with pride every September. And when families raise their spoons, someone always cries out, “¡Viva México!” because between radishes, oregano, and tostadas, what is also celebrated is memory and the greatness of a nation.
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Mexican Press Agency is part of ALMA, which is dedicated to news and information about Mexico and Mexicans in the United States and is a fiscally sponsored project of Social Focus, a 501(c)(3) nonprofit organization based in Redwood City, California.
