Spanish Rice

I believe Spanish Rice is the emotional backbone of any weekday comfort dinner (fight me). It’s weirdly patriotic at potlucks and then also the side dish you cry into at midnight — relate? Also, if your dessert game is chaotic like mine, you might enjoy my rice krispie chocolate chip cookies because yes, carbs are therapy.

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There was a time I made this and the kitchen smelled like tomato-scented regret for three days. The rice stuck to the pan with the conviction of a high school ex (you know that smell—slightly burnt, slightly ambitious). It was crunchy in a way rice should never be crunchy (like tiny broken seashells), and someone — I won’t say who, but it was me — stirred it too often because stirring is control and I like control until I don’t. There were pops and tiny hisses as steam escaped and I audibly judged myself. I thought adding more water would fix everything. It did not. Instead, I created a dense brick that could have been used as a doorstop for a very sad dollhouse. Embarrassing? Yes. Educational? Also yes. But I kept making it because failure is a flavor (gross, but true).

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Why this version finally behaves: a few tiny, spiteful adjustments and I calmed down. I stopped trying to micromanage the rice (emotionally, but also literally) and let simmering be the main character. Using broth instead of water gave it depth — actual depth, not just pretend — and toasting the rice first gave it texture that wasn’t “I am chewing a brick.” I started using a can of diced tomatoes with green chilies for that gentle punch (not hot hot, just "hello flavor"), and suddenly Spanish Rice wasn’t trying to be something else. It still doubts itself occasionally, like I do at 2 a.m., but it behaves. Also: seasoning at the end instead of lobbed in willy-nilly matters. Small, practical revelations; large emotional ones. If you like a saucier, more indulgent rice, try pairing flavors with something bolder like my bang bang fried rice — yes I just compared them. I’m allowed.

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• 1 cup long-grain rice
• 2 cups chicken or vegetable broth
• 1 small onion, diced
• 2 cloves garlic, minced
• 1 can (14.5 oz) diced tomatoes with green chilies
• 1 tablespoon olive oil
• 1 teaspoon chili powder
• 1 teaspoon cumin
• Salt and pepper to taste
• Chopped cilantro for garnish (optional)

Cheap, pantry-friendly, and weirdly nostalgic (also: if you can’t find green chilies, plain diced tomatoes are a perfectly acceptable compromise; texture and heat can be adjusted like a mood). I buy rice in bulk because I’m committed to tension and economy, and fresh cilantro is negotiable based on grocery availability and my relationship with cilantro (love/hate).

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1. In a large skillet, heat olive oil over medium heat. Add diced onion and sauté until translucent.
2. Stir in minced garlic and cook for an additional minute.
3. Add the rice and toast for a few minutes until lightly golden.
4. Pour in the broth, diced tomatoes (with juices), chili powder, cumin, salt, and pepper.
5. Bring to a boil, then reduce heat to low and cover. Cook for about 20 minutes or until rice is tender and liquid is absorbed.
6. Fluff the rice with a fork and garnish with chopped cilantro if desired. Serve as a side dish to your favorite Mexican meal.

Also: don’t peek like a suspicious roommate. Let it simmer in peace. If it looks a little wet when the timer dings, that’s okay — turn off the heat and let it rest covered for five minutes. Toasting is optional but transformative; skipping it is allowed if you’re tired. PRO TIP: if your rice is too firm, add a tablespoon of broth at a time and cover again. If it’s gluey, you loved it too hard (or used the wrong rice; long-grain is the personality match here).

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Okay, tell me: do you also have a pan that is The Pan™ and you use it for everything until it starts to smell like regret? Do your kids (or roommates or partners) sniff and ask if it’s soup? Who even invited cilantro to this party — salad? Rice? Both? Also, full disclosure, sometimes I eat this straight from the skillet standing in my kitchen in pajamas while zoning on a podcast. Have you done that? Is it normal? If you want a full dinner vibe, I sometimes make this alongside one-pan steak queso rice because I have zero chill when company comes over (and also because layering flavors is my emotional language). Tell me your skillet confessions.

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I keep thinking about how a simple skillet and a can of tomatoes can become the dish that holds a night together (or ruins it, whatever). There’s comfort in repetition, in the small ceremony of chopping an onion like you mean it, then forgetting and watching it caramelize anyway. I should stop romanticizing rice. But I won’t because it saved dinner that one time when everything else failed and also because I’m hungry and someone just texted about tacos and now my brain is on autopilot, which means I should probably—

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