Pozole is probably the most social soup on the planet. It’s what you eat on New Year’s Eve, after a funeral, or at midnight when you’re trying to recover from too many tequilas. (Side note: my Tía Lupe insists pozole cures everything from a cold to a broken heart. I haven’t tested the heartbreak theory, but the cold part? True.)
The toppings are a ceremony in themselves. You get your bowl—hot, steamy—and then you go to town: crunchy cabbage, slivered radishes, dried oregano, a squeeze of lime, maybe some chile powder. And tostadas. Always tostadas. You don’t just eat pozole; you build it. Every spoonful is a little snapshot of your personality—are you a cabbage-stacker or a lime-squeezer? (I’m both. I’m a chaos architect.)
