The Best Chicken Enchilada Soup

The tamalada. Two days. Fifteen dozen tamales. One kitchen. Twenty people. Zero casualties, unless you count my uncle Javier's pride after Elena told him his masa was too dry and made him start over.

Day one started at 6 AM at my parents' house. My mom had been up since five, and the kitchen already smelled like roasted chiles and simmered pork. The fillings were prepped: pork in red chile sauce (the anchor, the classic, the one everyone fights over), chicken in green tomatillo sauce, and rajas con queso — strips of roasted poblano with melted Oaxacan cheese. The corn husks were soaking in the bathtub, which is the most Rivera thing I can describe: using the bathtub for corn husks while twenty family members take turns using the one bathroom.

My aunts arrived by eight — Tía Rosa, Tía Carmen, Tía Lupita. My cousins filtered in throughout the morning. Miguel came with Adriana. Jessica arrived with Sofia at nine, wearing an apron Elena had given her that said "Honorary Rivera," which made Jessica tear up in a way that she denied for the rest of the weekend. The kitchen was full — eight women spreading masa, filling husks, folding, stacking. The rhythm of it is almost musical: spread, fill, fold, stack. Spread, fill, fold, stack. My mom moved between stations like a conductor, tasting fillings, checking masa consistency, occasionally stopping to adjust someone's technique with the gentle firmness of a woman who has been making tamales for fifty years and will not see her standards compromised.

I was on filling duty — the pork specifically, because I'd made the chile sauce and Elena trusts me with it. Sofia was on the floor eating scraps of masa that fell, which she seemed to enjoy. Jessica was spreading masa and getting better — her technique is still agricultural (she uses the spoon like a small shovel) but the tamales were coming out the right thickness. Tía Carmen told her "you're getting there, mija" and Jessica beamed like she'd won an award.

Day two: steaming. Thirty tamales per batch, forty-five minutes per batch. Six batches. We steamed from 8 AM to 2 PM. The house was so humid that the windows fogged. When the first batch came out and my mom unwrapped one and broke it open and the masa was light and the pork was tender and the chile sauce had infused the whole thing with smoky, earthy heat — the kitchen erupted. Applause. For tamales. Because in this family, tamales are not food. They're an event. They're a statement. They're the thing that says "we are still here, still together, still doing this the way Abuela Rosa did it, the way her mother did it, the way it will be done long after we're gone."

Fifteen dozen tamales. Distributed in foil-wrapped bundles to everyone who participated, everyone who didn't, the firehouse, the church, the neighbors, and the mysterious "whoever needs them" list that Elena maintains. I drove home Sunday night with four dozen tamales in a cooler and a two-year-old asleep in her car seat and a wife who smelled like masa and chile and said "same time next year?" And I said "every year, for the rest of our lives."

Coming home Sunday night with that cooler full of tamales, I couldn’t stop thinking about the flavors we’d been swimming in all weekend—roasted chile, cumin, slow-cooked meat, masa-thickened broth—and how I wanted to carry that warmth into the week ahead without a two-day production. Chicken enchilada soup scratches that same itch: it’s built on the same soul, the same smoky, earthy backbone, but it comes together on a Tuesday night while the kids are doing homework. This is the version I’ve made so many times it barely needs a recipe anymore, but I’m writing it down so you can make it yours.

Prep Time: 15 minutes | Cook Time: 40 minutes | Total Time: 55 minutes | Servings: 6

Ingredients

2 tablespoons olive oil
1 medium yellow onion, diced
4 cloves garlic, minced
1 poblano pepper, roasted, peeled, seeded, and diced
2 teaspoons ground cumin
1 teaspoon smoked paprika
1 teaspoon dried oregano (Mexican oregano preferred)
1/2 teaspoon chili powder
1/4 teaspoon cayenne pepper (adjust to taste)
2 tablespoons tomato paste
1 can (10 oz) red enchilada sauce
1 can (14.5 oz) fire-roasted diced tomatoes
1 can (15 oz) black beans, drained and rinsed
1 can (15 oz) pinto beans, drained and rinsed
1 cup frozen or canned corn, drained
4 cups low-sodium chicken broth
1 1/2 lbs boneless, skinless chicken breasts or thighs
4 oz cream cheese, softened and cubed
1/2 cup sour cream
Salt and black pepper to taste
Juice of 1 lime

For serving: shredded Oaxacan or Monterey Jack cheese, sliced avocado, fresh cilantro, sour cream, tortilla strips or chips, lime wedges

Instructions

Build the base. Heat olive oil in a large Dutch oven or heavy pot over medium heat. Add the diced onion and cook, stirring occasionally, until softened and translucent, about 5 minutes. Add the garlic and roasted poblano and cook 1 minute more until fragrant.
Toast the spices. Add the cumin, smoked paprika, oregano, chili powder, and cayenne directly to the pot. Stir constantly for 30 seconds until the spices are fragrant and lightly toasted. Add the tomato paste and stir to combine, cooking for 1 additional minute.
Add the liquids and chicken. Pour in the enchilada sauce, fire-roasted tomatoes, and chicken broth. Stir to fully incorporate, scraping up any browned bits from the bottom of the pot. Nestle the whole chicken pieces into the liquid. They should be mostly submerged — add a splash more broth if needed.
Simmer. Bring the pot to a gentle boil over medium-high heat, then reduce to medium-low. Cover and simmer for 20—25 minutes, until the chicken is cooked through and reaches an internal temperature of 165°F.
Shred the chicken. Remove the chicken pieces to a cutting board. Use two forks to shred into bite-sized pieces. Return the shredded chicken to the pot.
Add beans and corn. Stir in the black beans, pinto beans, and corn. Simmer uncovered for 5 minutes to warm through and let the flavors meld.
Make it creamy. Reduce heat to low. Add the cubed cream cheese to the pot in small pieces, stirring gently until each piece is fully melted and incorporated. Remove from heat and stir in the sour cream. Do not boil after adding the dairy or the soup may break.
Finish and season. Squeeze in the lime juice. Taste and adjust salt, pepper, and cayenne. The soup should be smoky, rich, and have a gentle heat that builds — the kind of warmth that fills a kitchen.
Serve. Ladle into bowls and top generously with shredded Oaxacan or Monterey Jack cheese, a dollop of sour cream, sliced avocado, fresh cilantro, and tortilla strips. Serve with lime wedges on the side.

Nutrition (per serving)

The Best Chicken Enchilada Soup — The Flavors of the Tamalada, Ready Any Night of the Year