Cundiboyacense Mazamorra Chiquita: An Altiplano Heirloom in a Bowl

Mazamorra chiquita is the rustic, savory cousin of Colombia’s better-known sweet corn drink. Born on the cool high plateau of the Altiplano Cundiboyacense—stretching across Cundinamarca and Boyacá—it is a stew that captures highland agriculture in a single pot. The dish hinges on cracked white corn (mote or hominy) simmered with Andean tubers and vegetables, scented generously with guasca, the defining herb in many altiplano soups. Achiote lends a sunny color and subtle earthiness, while toppings like hogao, capers, and a dash of ají bring brightness right at the table.

What makes it special

• Corn is the backbone: cracked hominy gradually releases starch, thickening the broth to a spoon-coating consistency, not unlike a soft, savory porridge.
• Guasca is essential: this humble herb (Galinsoga parviflora) offers a distinctly Colombian aroma—grassy, slightly floral, gently bitter—that harmonizes with potatoes and pumpkin.
• Layered tubers add character: papa criolla melts softly; white potatoes give body; pumpkin contributes sweetness. When available, cubios, chuguas, and ibias contribute peppery, nutty, and tangy notes unique to Andean terroir.
• Finishing condiments matter: hogao supplies acidity and umami, capers a briny pop, and ají a welcome spark. These are the exclamation points after the long, slow sentence of a simmer.

History and cultural significance

In the highlands, corn has been sustenance since pre-Columbian times, and mazamorra chiquita reads like a ledger of the local harvest. Families historically made it on market days or during the chillier months, stretching modest ingredients to feed many. The name “chiquita” (little) is affectionate rather than literal—portions are hearty, and the pot is often big. Home cooks tailor the stew to what the fields and plazas offer; some add fava beans or field peas, others enrich the pot with pork belly, ribs, or simply a good bone broth. What unites all versions is a patient simmer and the unmistakable whisper of guasca.

Texture and flavor cues

• The broth should be thick but pourable, with a gentle sheen from the starches and achiote.
• Kernels of hominy are tender but still pleasantly toothsome.
• Potatoes hold their shape; a few may be mashed to enrich the body of the stew.
• The aroma leans herbal (guasca), warm (cumin), and slightly sweet (pumpkin and corn), finishing with the bright edge of hogao and cilantro.

Practical tips and substitutions

• Corn choices: Dried cracked hominy offers the best texture. If you can’t soak overnight, quick-soak by boiling 5 minutes and resting for 1 hour. Canned hominy is fast; rinse well and shorten the simmer.
• Guasca sourcing: Look for “guasca” in Latin markets or online. If unavailable, use 1.5 tsp dried oregano plus a tiny pinch of mint—this doesn’t replicate guasca, but mimics the herbal profile well enough.
• Andean tubers: If you can’t find cubios, chuguas, or ibias, small turnips or mild radishes provide peppery brightness; a little parsnip adds sweetness. Use a mix for complexity.
• Vegetarian path: Omit pork and use vegetable broth. A tablespoon of neutral oil in the sofrito and a splash of smoked paprika can echo the savory depth.
• Season late: Salt after the corn has simmered; starchy broths can concentrate, and early salting risks over-seasoning.
• Adjust body: The classic trick is to mash a few potato cubes against the pot; or blend a ladleful and return it for silkiness without dairy.

Make-ahead and storage

Mazamorra chiquita tastes even better on day two as flavors marry. It thickens notably in the fridge; loosen with hot water or broth. It freezes well for up to 2 months—cool completely, portion, and reheat gently to preserve texture.

Serving suggestions

Serve with arepas boyacenses or crusty bread. On the table, set bowls of hogao, capers, chopped cilantro, lime wedges, and ají so diners can tailor brightness and heat. A simple side of sliced avocado offers creamy contrast to the stew’s hearty bite.

A cook’s reflection

I love how this dish tells a landscape’s story: the steady comfort of corn, the generosity of tubers, the quiet insistence of guasca. It is humble yet layered, familiar yet place-specific. Cook it slowly, share it freely, and let the condiments at the end sing the high notes. That’s the spirit of the altiplano—warmth against the mountain air, and plenty for everyone around the table.