Arroz A La Mexicana – Tomato-Flavored Mexican Red Rice.

Okay, okay, let me tell you. My cousin Lupe swore she could make Arroz Rojo better than anyone. Everyone knew that was...a problem.

Arroz a la Mexicana, okay? It’s more than just rice, mija. It’s a whole thing. Back in pre-hispanic Mexico, they were using wild rices, sure, but it wasn’t like this. ¡Ay Dios mío! The Spanish came, brought their long-grain rice—way different—and we slowly started mixing things up. But really, the red color, that comes from the tomatoes, that's a post-colonial invention. They figured out how to blend the old ways with what they had. And now? Now it's at every fiesta, every Sunday dinner, every time somebody wants to impress their novio’s mama.

It pretends to be simple, right? Rice, tomato, onion, garlic. So easy! That’s what Lupe thought. She said she had a “new technique.” Mm-hmm. As if Abuelita hadn’t been making this since before Lupe was even born. Seriously, I swear Abuelita invented the stove. She'd stand over you, silently judging, stirring, adjusting the heat with a look that could curdle milk. And then there's Tía Mildred. Oh, Lord.

Lupe was over, all confident, talking about "bloom the tomato paste" and "deglaze with white wine." White wine in Arroz Rojo?! Abuelita almost choked on her café de olla (the woman lives on caffeine, seriously). I tried to warn Lupe. "Cuz," I said, "Just…do it like Abuelita shows you." She rolled her eyes. "I got this." Famous last words.

The kitchen filled with steam, and the smell...well, it smelled…interesting. Not good interesting. More like "something is burning but I'm not sure what" interesting. Abuelita just kept stirring her rice, looking over her glasses at Lupe with this very slow head shake. It wasn't anger; it was pity. Pure, unadulterated culinary pity.

Tía Mildred, she walked in, smelling of lavender and whatever drama she’d been involved in that day. "What's this smell?" she asked dramatically, waving a hand in front of her nose. "Smells like somebody is trying to be fancy and failing miserably." Everyone just froze. Even Abuelita stopped stirring. That woman could cut you down with a single sentence.

Lupe, bless her heart, tried to explain her “technique.” She went on and on about reducing sauces and achieving maximum flavor complexity. Abuelita finally spoke, one word: "Tomates." That's it. Just "tomates." Like Lupe had committed some kind of unforgivable sin by forgetting the essential ingredient.

It turned out, Lupe had gotten distracted chatting on the phone—with her novio, naturally—and completely forgot to add the tomato sauce. The rice was pale and sad, sticking to the bottom of the pot. A complete disaster. Everyone looked at me, knowing I was the designated "fixer." Of course.

I took over, calmly adding the proper amount of tomato sauce, a little chicken broth, and letting Abuelita guide my hand. Within minutes, the kitchen smelled like home again. Golden-red grains, fluffy and fragrant. Perfection. Lupe sulked in the corner. Husband Carlos wandered in, mumbled something about needing a beer, and went back to the game.

Abuelita, she didn’t say much. Just a small smile and a nod. Tía Mildred sniffed the air, then said, “Much better. Still needs more salt though.” She always says it needs more salt. It's her thing. It doesn’t matter what anyone makes, it always needs more salt according to Tía Mildred. You just learn to accept it. My cousins and I are convinced she has no tastebuds.

The rice was amazing. I served it with carne asada and guacamole (because what else would you serve with Arroz Rojo?). Even Lupe admitted it was good…after about three servings. Abuelita, she ate quietly, watching us all, satisfied. And I knew, deep down, that some lessons are best learned the hard way—especially when it comes to Arroz a la Mexicana.

Recipe

Ingredients 🌽🥘

• 2 tablespoons vegetable oil
• 1 cup long-grain white rice
• 1/2 medium white onion, finely chopped
• 2 cloves garlic, minced
• 1 (8 ounce) can tomato sauce
• 2 cups chicken broth (low sodium preferred)
• 1 teaspoon ground cumin
• 1/2 teaspoon salt (or more, if Tía Mildred is visiting)
• 1/4 teaspoon black pepper
• 1/4 cup chopped cilantro (for garnish)

Tools 🔪🥄

• Large pot with lid
• Measuring cups and spoons
• Wooden spoon or spatula
• Cutting board
• Knife

Steps

1. Heat the vegetable oil in a large pot over medium heat. Add the rice and cook, stirring constantly, until lightly golden brown – about 5 minutes. Don't let it burn! (Abuelita would kill you).
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2. Add the chopped onion and cook until softened, about 3 minutes. Then throw in the minced garlic and cook for another minute, until fragrant. You should be smelling good things now.
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3. Pour in the tomato sauce, chicken broth, cumin, salt, and pepper. Stir well to combine everything. Bring the mixture to a boil.
4. Once boiling, reduce the heat to low, cover the pot tightly, and simmer for 20-25 minutes, or until all the liquid is absorbed and the rice is tender. Don’t peek! (Seriously, don’t. It lets the steam escape).
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5. Remove the pot from the heat and let it sit, covered, for 5 minutes. This helps the rice fluff up. (The hardest part: waiting!).
6. Fluff the rice with a fork. Garnish with chopped cilantro and serve immediately. ¡Provecho!

Make-Ahead / Storage

• Leftovers can be stored in an airtight container in the refrigerator for up to 3 days.
• Reheat gently in the microwave or on the stovetop with a splash of water to prevent drying out.
• Rice freezes surprisingly well! Portion into freezer bags, removing as much air as possible. Thaw overnight in the fridge.
• Freezing may slightly change the texture, but it’s still delicious.

Side Dish Pairing

• Grilled fish with a lime-cilantro marinade.
• Spicy shredded chicken tinga.

Mi abuelita siempre decía, “El arroz bien hecho es el corazón de la comida.”

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