Sopa Tarasca – Bean, Tomato, And Tortilla Soup From Michoacán.

My cousin Miguel… oh, that boy. Tried to impress a girl with a fancy French soup. A French soup! In our family?! ¡Ay Dios mío! The disaster.

Okay, okay, so Sopa Tarasca, right? It’s serious business. Like, you mess it up, you disrespect generations. It comes from Michoacán, the state in Mexico where everything tastes like magic—the tomatoes are sweeter, the chiles have more fire, even the water sparkles (maybe I'm exaggerating...a little). It’s been around forever, since before we even had a name for “soup” or “tarascos” for that matter. The Purépecha people, they were making this stuff way back when, probably using stones to heat the broth—can you imagine?!

See, traditionally, it was a peasant dish. Made with what you had, mostly beans and whatever vegetables were growing. But don’t let "peasant" fool you, it’s got layers of flavor, layers! And it’s not just about throwing stuff in a pot. You gotta coax the flavors out, build them up. It's a slow process, which is why it tastes so good. Now you find versions everywhere - fancy restaurants are trying to get in on the action, but they never get it right (too much cilantro, usually). They think a sprig of fancy herbs makes it legit. Mija, no. It needs soul.

My abuela, Elena, she made the BEST Sopa Tarasca. She wouldn’t write down her recipe, of course. “The secret is in the heart,” she’d say, while simultaneously swatting my brother with a chancla because he tracked mud into the kitchen. I used to sneak into the kitchen and try to watch her, memorizing every pinch of salt, every swirl of the spoon. She knew. She always knew. And she'd make me start over if I tried to help. “No, mija, you’ll ruin it!” she’d yell.

Then there was the Great Tortilla Strip Incident of ‘98. My sister, Sofia, decided to “improve” the soup by making the tortilla strips extra crispy. She left them unattended and burned the whole batch. Abuela almost had a conniption! The yelling… it echoed through the neighborhood. Sofia hid under the table for hours, convinced she was disinherited. Honestly, I thought it was kind of funny. Until Abuela made me remake the tortilla strips. Three times.

And don’t even get me started on the chili pepper debate. Abuela swore by chile de árbol. My tío Ricardo insisted on guajillo. Every family gathering turned into a chili pepper showdown, with everyone taking sides and arguing passionately. It escalated once when Tío Ricardo brought a habanero, claiming it was “a more authentic heat”. Abuela nearly fainted.

That reminds me—Tía Mildred somehow got involved one year. She claimed she knew a "secret ingredient" that would elevate the soup to another level: pineapple juice. Pineapple juice! In Sopa Tarasca?! We all looked at her like she'd lost her mind. Of course, she made a small batch with her "secret," and everyone politely took a spoonful and pretended to like it while discreetly dumping their bowls into the dog's water dish.

I remember one time when my crush, Javier, came over for dinner. I was so nervous! I tried to help make the soup, hoping to impress him (and Abuela, obviously). I accidentally dumped an entire jar of cumin into the pot. The soup tasted like…well, it tasted like cumin. Javier tried to be polite, but he kept making faces. He said it was “interesting.” Interesting is code for terrible, you know?

Then there was the salsa spill of ‘05. My cousin Marco, always clumsy, tripped while carrying a bowl of salsa roja through the kitchen. It went everywhere. On the floor, on the walls, on Abuela’s prized tablecloth. Chaos. But amidst the chaos, Abuela just sighed and said, “More flavor for the house.” She had a way of finding humor in everything, even disasters.

My primo Luis once bragged that his girlfriend’s grandmother made a better version. Abuela didn’t say anything at first. She just stared at him. Then, slowly, she reached for the chancla. Oh, the look on his face. It was priceless. He recanted immediately and begged for forgiveness.

And then there was the competition with Doña Elena from next door. They were rivals, those two. Always comparing recipes, always trying to outdo each other. One year, Doña Elena claimed her Sopa Tarasca won a prize at the local fair. Abuela scoffed and made a double batch the very next day, just to prove a point. The tension was thick enough to cut with a knife.

I finally perfected my abuela's recipe after years of practice and near-disasters. Now, every time I make it, I feel like she’s right there with me, watching me, maybe even swatting my hand with an imaginary chancla if I try to take shortcuts. It's not just soup; it's a connection to my family, my history, my soul. And it tastes… well, it tastes like home.

Recipe

Ingredients 🌽🥘

• 1 tablespoon vegetable oil
• 1 medium white onion, chopped
• 2 cloves garlic, minced
• 2 large tomatoes, roughly chopped
• 1 (28 ounce) can crushed tomatoes
• 1 teaspoon ground cumin
• ½ teaspoon dried oregano
• ¼ teaspoon cayenne pepper (or more, to taste! ¡ándale!)
• 6 cups chicken broth (or vegetable broth for vegetarian option)
• 1 (15 ounce) can black beans, rinsed and drained
• 1 (15 ounce) can pinto beans, rinsed and drained
• Salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste
• 6 corn tortillas, cut into thin strips
• Avocado slices, for garnish
• Queso fresco, crumbled, for garnish
• Crema mexicana (Mexican cream), for garnish

Tools 🔪🥄

• Large pot or Dutch oven
• Cutting board
• Knife
• Blender or immersion blender
• Skillet

Steps

1. Heat the oil in a large pot over medium heat. Add the onion and cook until softened, about 5 minutes. Add the garlic and cook for another minute until fragrant. Don't burn it—Abuela would haunt you!
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2. Add the chopped tomatoes and crushed tomatoes to the pot. Cook for about 10 minutes, stirring occasionally, until the tomatoes have broken down slightly. This is where the flavor starts building, so be patient.
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3. Stir in the cumin, oregano, and cayenne pepper. Cook for 1 minute more, allowing the spices to bloom. Smell that? Magic.
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4. Pour in the chicken broth and bring to a boil. Reduce the heat and simmer for 30 minutes, allowing the flavors to meld. You want the broth nice and flavorful—taste it and adjust seasonings as needed.
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5. Add the black beans and pinto beans to the pot. Simmer for another 15 minutes. If you want a smoother soup, use an immersion blender to partially blend some of the soup (but don’t overdo it! We want texture).
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6. While the soup simmers, prepare the tortilla strips. Heat a little oil in a skillet over medium heat. Fry the tortilla strips until golden brown and crispy. Watch them carefully—nobody wants a repeat of the Great Tortilla Strip Incident. Drain on paper towels.
7. Taste and season the soup with salt and pepper to your liking. It needs a good amount of seasoning, trust me. My abuela always said you should taste the sunshine.
8. Ladle the soup into bowls and garnish with avocado slices, queso fresco, and a dollop of crema mexicana. Sprinkle generously with those crispy tortilla strips.

Make-Ahead / Storage

This soup is even better the next day! Store leftovers in an airtight container in the refrigerator for up to 4 days. It also freezes well for up to 3 months.

Side Dish Pairing

Serve this hearty soup with a side of warm corn tortillas or a simple green salad for a complete meal.

Don't forget, a little spice makes everything nice!

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