Mole de Pollo de Bautizo P'urhépecha

Michoacán, Meseta P'urhépecha, the high country between Zacán, Cherán, Cocucho, Uruapan, and the road down to Lake Pátzcuaro: this is where this baptism mole lives. It is not Puebla's mole poblano and it is not chocolate sauce. The Meseta cocineras serve it for bautizo because the sauce feeds a patio full of relatives and still tastes like ceremony: guajillo for red depth, ancho for sweetness, cacao to round the chile, and chicken from the corral simmered until the broth knows what it is carrying.

The women who keep this dish alive are the cocineras tradicionales of Zacán, Janitzio, Cocucho, Cherán, and Uruapan. I have watched them work at fogones de leña, setting chiles on the comal and deciding by smell, not by clock. The milpa gives the corn tortilla that thickens the mole, the monte gives thyme, mejorana, oregano, and laurel in the market herb bundles, and the lago gives its own words, kurucha and acúmara, even when this baptism table belongs to chicken.

This is close to atápakua in its respect for thick sauce, but it is mole: chiles toasted, seeds fried in manteca de cerdo, sauce strained and refried until oil shines at the edge. No me vengas con atajos. A blender is fine. Skipping the frying is not. Cada estado, su propia cocina.

My mother did not write this one in her Jalisco notebook. I learned it in Michoacán, where a black-clay cazuela of Patamban can sit in the center of the table and make everybody quiet for the first bite. Saber cocinar es saber vivir.