Caldo Michi – Michoacán Catfish Soup.

My cousin Ricardo tried to make caldo before? Ay Dios mío, it smelled like someone left their gym socks in hot water.

This isn’t just soup, you understand? This is Caldo Michi—a legacy, a whisper of lakes, and frankly, a test of anyone’s patience. It comes from Michoacán, you know, where my papá’s side is from. Now, Michoacán, she's a state of pure magic. Mountains, lakes, handcrafts…and some people who think they can cook (Ricardo, I'm looking at you). The thing about Michoacán is that it has a lot of lakes, right? So freshwater fish is EVERYTHING. And catfish? El rey. The king. Not that slimy stuff you get frozen in the grocery store! Real bagre, fresh from the lake, muddy and magnificent.

Centuries ago, the Purepecha people, the original inhabitants, they were the first ones mastering the art of using what the lake gave them. They mixed the fish with chiles, tomatoes, squash blossoms—the whole garden went into the pot. Then, when the Spanish showed up (¡ándale!, always interrupting!), they added rice, garbanzo beans, all sorts of things. It became this glorious fusion, this big hug in a bowl. But don’t let anyone tell you it’s simple. It’s not. It requires soul. And a really good chancla-wielding abuela to keep everyone in line while you’re cooking.

My family's version…well, it's complicated. My mamá, Lupita, she was a perfectionist. Every spice had to be measured precisely. Too much cilantro? Insult to her ancestors. Too little chile? You clearly don’t respect the flavor. She’d spend hours making the broth, skimming off every last bit of foam. And my tía Elena, oh, Elena! She thought Lupita was too fussy. “It needs more garlic!” she’d yell across the kitchen. “More oregano!” It was a war zone, I tell you, a culinary battlefield fought over a pot of soup.

And then there was me. Little Sofia, sneaking bites of the fish before it made it into the caldo, getting chased around the table with a chancla because "it's disrespectful!" (But it smelled SO good!). I once tried to "help" by adding a whole jar of pickled jalapeños. Let’s just say that didn’t go well. Lupita nearly fainted. Elena laughed so hard she snorted tequila.

Then there's Tía Mildred. Now, she doesn’t cook. Doesn’t even pretend to. Her contribution is always “moral support,” which usually involves loudly critiquing everyone else’s technique while eating all the chips and salsa. Last year, she told me my broth looked "like dishwater." Dishwater! ¡La insolencia! (The audacity!) Then she asked for seconds.

One time, Ricardo decided he could make the caldo for the annual family reunion. He bought this…frozen catfish. FROZEN! Lupita almost had a heart attack. Elena started muttering about how the younger generation had no respect. And the soup? Oh, the soup. It tasted like sadness and regret. Like the catfish died of loneliness. We all pretended to eat it, but secretly, we were ordering pizza.

My mamá insisted on teaching me the "proper" way, step by agonizing step. She'd stand over me, correcting my knife skills, tasting the broth every five minutes, sighing dramatically when I didn't get it right. It was exhausting, but also…loving. I knew she was trying to pass down something important, something more than just a recipe. She wanted me to carry on the tradition, to keep the spirit of Michoacán alive in our kitchen.

I remember one particularly chaotic afternoon, making the caldo with my cousin Isabel. We were both trying to peel tomatoes at the same time, and somehow, a tomato fight erupted. Salsa flew everywhere, staining the curtains, splattering on the floor. Lupita walked in mid-fight, took one look at the mess, and just shook her head. Then, she grabbed an apron and joined us. We ended up laughing so hard we cried. And the caldo? It turned out perfectly. Because sometimes, the best ingredients are chaos and love.

Later that night, Tía Mildred cornered me. “You know,” she said, lowering her voice, “that Ricardo’s frozen catfish smelled better than your papá’s socks.” I nearly choked on my agua fresca. She winked. “Just kidding, mija. Your caldo is beautiful. But add more garlic." Always more garlic.

Now, whenever I make this caldo, I think of all those women—Lupita, Elena, even Tía Mildred—and I feel connected to them, to our history, to the lakes of Michoacán. It's more than just soup; it's a story, a memory, a warm hug on a cold day. And yeah, maybe a little bit of chancla energy too.

Recipe

Caldo Michi – Michoacán Catfish Soup

(A taste of home, made with love... and a healthy dose of family drama.)

Ingredients 🌽🥘

• 1.5 lbs fresh catfish fillets (skin on or off, your preference)
• 8 cups water
• 1 large onion, quartered
• 4 cloves garlic, smashed
• 2 Roma tomatoes, quartered
• 1 jalapeño pepper, stemmed (leave seeds for more heat)
• 1/2 bunch cilantro, tied with kitchen twine
• 1 tablespoon dried oregano
• 1 teaspoon cumin
• 1/2 teaspoon black peppercorns
• 1 cup garbanzo beans (chickpeas), soaked overnight and drained
• 1 cup long-grain rice, rinsed
• 2 medium carrots, peeled and sliced
• 1 zucchini, chopped
• 1 small potato, peeled and cubed
• 1/4 cup lime juice
• Salt to taste
• Chopped avocado, for garnish
• Radishes, thinly sliced, for garnish

Tools 🔪🥄

• Large stockpot
• Cutting board
• Knife
• Colander
• Kitchen twine
• Ladle

Steps

1. In a large stockpot, combine the water, onion, garlic, tomatoes, jalapeño, cilantro, oregano, cumin, and peppercorns. Bring to a boil, then reduce heat and simmer for 1 hour to create a flavorful broth. This is where Lupita would be hovering, making sure I didn't mess it up!
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2. Gently add the soaked garbanzo beans to the simmering broth and cook for another 30 minutes, until tender but not mushy. We don’t want mushy beans, mija. It’s a tragedy.
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3. Add the rice, carrots, zucchini, and potato to the pot. Continue to simmer for 15-20 minutes, or until the rice is cooked through and the vegetables are tender. Taste and adjust seasoning with salt.
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4. Season the catfish fillets with salt. Carefully place the fish into the simmering broth. Cook for 8-10 minutes, or until the fish is flaky and cooked through. Don’t overcook it, or you'll end up like Ricardo's sad frozen fish!
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5. Remove the cilantro bundle and jalapeño from the soup. Stir in the lime juice. That little zing makes all the difference.
6. Ladle the caldo michi into bowls. Garnish with chopped avocado and sliced radishes. Serve immediately…and brace yourself for compliments (and maybe a critique from Tía Mildred).

Make-Ahead / Storage

• The broth can be made 1-2 days ahead of time and stored in the refrigerator.
• Leftover caldo michi can be refrigerated for up to 3 days.
• Reheat gently on the stovetop;

the fish will likely lose some texture upon reheating.

Side Dish Pairing

Serve with warm corn tortillas and a side of salsa verde. A Mexican Coke is always a welcome addition, too.

My abuela Lupita would be so proud. Though, she'd probably still tell me I need to add more cilantro. She always said the secret to good caldo was a generous hand with the cilantro and a whole lot of love. And maybe a pinch of skepticism towards anyone who dared to call it anything but "caldo."

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