Gorditas De Chicharrón – Thick Corn Patties Stuffed With Pork Cracklings.
The smoke alarm was screaming—again—and my husband, Rafael, swore he saw Abuela’s ghost waving a wooden spoon. It all started with gorditas de chicharrón, of course.
These aren't just any gorditas, mija. Gorditas are, like, ancient. Really. Long before avocados were trendy, back when people still used pesos with holes in them, the indigenous peoples of Mexico were grinding nixtamalized corn into masa. The Aztecs? They had something similar. Not exactly gorditas, but little pockets of goodness. Think small, thick tortillas, split open and stuffed. ¡Ándale! It was survival food, travel food, "I need something in my belly RIGHT NOW" food.
Later, when the Spanish came, they brought pork, of course. And you know what happens when pork meets ingenuity? Chicharrón! Crispy, crackly, salty heaven. Someone, somewhere, figured out those two things needed to be together. A hero, really. That person deserves a statue, or at least a lifetime supply of salsa verde.
My momma always made them on Sundays. The smell would fill the whole block. My brother, Carlos, would try to sneak chicharrón directly from the pot before it even got into the gorditas (¡chiquito bandido!). He still does that, honestly. Now, Mama’s recipe was…particular. She’d use lard, of course—anything less is an insult to your ancestors—and she’d knead the masa until her knuckles were white. She said it built character. I think it built biceps.
And then there's Tía Mildred. Ay Dios mío, Tía Mildred. Every family has one. She “improves” everything. Last Thanksgiving she added pineapple to the tamales. PINEAPPLE. My cousins and I still haven't recovered. So naturally, when Mama wasn't looking, Tía Mildred tried to put cinnamon and sugar in the chicharrón. Can you believe it?! Mama saw her, let out a scream that shattered a glass, and chased Tía Mildred around the kitchen with a chancla. It was glorious.
Carlos, always the opportunist, used the distraction to swipe a handful of chicharrón. That boy…he has no shame. He claims he was “testing for quality control.” Honestly? Probably just hungry. He can eat a horse, that one. And he'll argue with you about it, too. One time, he told my boss his wife made better flan. Better flan! My flan! ¡La audacia!
The worst part about Tía Mildred’s interference isn’t just the weird ingredients; it’s the way she looks at you afterward, all innocent. “I just thought it needed a little something extra, mija.” No, Tía Mildred. It did not. It needed to be left alone. Like a sleeping baby, or a good mole sauce.
Rafael, he tries to stay out of the kitchen during these culinary wars. He learned his lesson after suggesting we use pre-made masa once. The look Mama gave him could curdle milk. Now he’s relegated to official salsa taster, which, honestly, isn’t a bad gig. He takes it very seriously. He even has a notebook. A NOTEBOOK for salsa tasting! Men are strange creatures.
One year, I decided to make the gorditas myself, trying to replicate Mama’s perfection. It was a disaster. The masa was too sticky, the chicharrón was burnt, and somehow, Carlos managed to spill an entire jar of salsa roja on the floor. It looked like a crime scene. Rafael, being the ever-helpful husband, suggested we order pizza. Mama almost disowned me. But hey, at least we had a good story.
My cousin, Sofia, tried to flirt with the delivery guy. She always does that. It’s her signature move. She says it's "research." Research for what? I have no idea. Probably a novel about handsome pizza delivery drivers. She is dramatic. Everything is a plot point with Sofia.
And then, of course, there’s the issue of who makes the best gorditas de chicharrón in the family. My momma thinks it’s her, naturally. Sofia claims hers are “artisanal.” Carlos just wants more chicharrón. And Tía Mildred? Well, she insists hers would be the best if only people would embrace her pineapple chicharrón vision. It’s exhausting. It's also...family.
Honestly, making these gorditas is less about the food and more about surviving the chaos. It's about dodging chanclas, ignoring questionable ingredient suggestions, and laughing until your stomach hurts. And when you finally take that first bite—warm masa, crispy chicharrón, a little bit of salsa—it’s all worth it. Even the pineapple threat.
Recipe
Ingredients 🌽🥘
- 2 cups masa harina (corn flour for tortillas)
- 1 ½ cups warm water (plus more if needed)
- ¼ cup rendered pork lard (¡importantísimo!)
- 1 teaspoon baking powder
- ½ teaspoon salt
- 1 pound chicharrón (pork cracklings), roughly chopped (buy pre-made, trust me)
- Vegetable oil, for cooking
Tools 🔪🥄
- Large mixing bowl
- Small saucepan
- Cast iron skillet or griddle
- Slotted spoon
- Potato masher (or your hands, like Mama)
Steps
- In a large mixing bowl, combine the masa harina, warm water, melted lard, baking powder, and salt. Knead with your hands for about 5-7 minutes until a smooth, pliable dough forms. It should be soft but not sticky—add a little more water if it's too dry. (Mama says if it feels like a baby’s bottom, you’re good).
- Cover the dough and let it rest for at least 20 minutes. This lets the gluten relax (apparently that’s a thing even with masa) and makes the gorditas more tender.
- While the dough rests, chop the chicharrón into smaller pieces if necessary. You want nice, bite-sized bits of crunchy goodness.
- Divide the masa dough into 8 equal portions. Roll each portion into a ball, then flatten it gently between your palms to form a thick patty about ½ inch thick.
- Using your thumbs, make an indentation in the center of each patty, creating a pocket for the chicharrón. Fill the pocket generously with chopped chicharrón.
- Carefully pinch the edges of the dough together to seal in the chicharrón, forming a complete gordita. Flatten the sealed gordita slightly.
- Heat about ¼ inch of vegetable oil in a cast iron skillet or griddle over medium heat. Cook the gorditas for about 4-5 minutes per side, or until golden brown and cooked through. They should puff up slightly. (Don't overcrowd the pan, mija!)
- Remove the gorditas from the skillet and place them on a paper towel-lined plate to drain excess oil. Serve immediately.
Make-Ahead / Storage
- The masa dough can be made ahead of time and stored in the refrigerator for up to 24 hours. Wrap tightly in plastic wrap to prevent drying out.
- Cooked gorditas are best enjoyed fresh, but leftovers can be stored in an airtight container in the refrigerator for up to 3 days. Reheat in a skillet or oven to restore crispness.
- For longer storage, you can freeze uncooked gorditas. Place them on a baking sheet lined with parchment paper and freeze until solid. Then transfer to a freezer bag and store for up to 2 months. Cook from frozen, adding a few extra minutes to the cooking time.
Side Dish Pairing
- Pickled Red Onions with Habanero—the tang cuts through the richness beautifully.
A simple Green Salad with a Lime Vinaigrette adds freshness. - Mexican Rice provides a comforting base.
Don't forget, these aren't just gorditas, they’re a little pocket of abuela's love!
