North African Chicken and Rice -- Cooking Toward Where He’s Going

Two weeks until deployment. Fourteen days. Luis Jr. comes for Sunday dinner and he is calm — the military calm, the trained calm, the calm of a man who has been taught to control the visible while the invisible rages. I see through the calm. I am his mother. Mothers see through everything — through walls, through distance, through the careful composure of a nineteen-year-old soldier who is afraid and trained and afraid. He eats my enchiladas and he asks for seconds and the asking-for-seconds is the conversation: I am here. I am still here. The enchiladas are the language. More, please. More means: I need this. More means: I am taking this taste with me. More means: remember me.

Andrea comes to every Sunday dinner now. She will wait for him. She said this to me in the kitchen while I was washing dishes: "I'll wait for him." Three words. The same three words that a thousand military girlfriends have said to a thousand military mothers in a thousand kitchens, and the words are brave and hopeful and possibly naive, and I don't say the possibly-naive part because hope is fragile and I will not be the one to break it. I said: "He's worth waiting for." She said: "I know." She washes dishes beside me now. She dries while I wash. The rhythm of it — wash, dry, wash, dry — is the rhythm of women who share a kitchen and a man and the waiting.

Camila asked if Luis Jr. is going to die. She is six (seven in October). She asked it at breakfast, between bites of cereal, with the direct cruelty of a child who does not know that some questions are not asked at breakfast. I said: "No." I said it with the certainty that I do not feel, because the certainty is for her, not for me. My certainty is a gift I give to my children while I keep the doubt for myself, locked in the room where the doubt lives, next to the two Javiers and the what-if sentence I never finish.

I made tamales this week. Not for the bakery. Not for an order. For Luis Jr. Specifically. A batch of one hundred — chile colorado and green chile chicken — sealed in freezer bags, labeled with reheating instructions (written in my handwriting because my handwriting is the font of home), and delivered to Fort Bliss in a cooler. He will take them to the Middle East. He will reheat them in whatever kitchen the Army provides. He will eat Rosa's tamales in a war zone, and the tamales will taste like El Paso and like Rosa and like me, and the taste will be a bridge, and the bridge will connect him to us across whatever desert he occupies, and the desert will not feel as far because the tamales are there.

The tamales are already sealed and labeled and sitting in a cooler headed to Fort Bliss — that part is done, that bridge is built. But after Luis Jr. left Sunday dinner and the house went quiet, I found myself still in the kitchen, still cooking, still trying to close the distance in the only way I know how. I kept thinking about where he’s going — the sand, the heat, the world so different from El Paso — and I wanted to understand even a little of it. This North African Chicken and Rice is warm and deeply spiced and fragrant in a way that feels like it belongs to a place far from here, and making it was my way of traveling toward him in my mind, of practicing the geography of his absence before it begins.

North African Chicken and Rice

Prep Time: 15 min | Cook Time: 45 min | Total Time: 1 hr | Servings: 6

Ingredients

• 2 lbs bone-in, skin-on chicken thighs (about 5–6 pieces)
• 1 1/2 cups long-grain white rice
• 1 medium yellow onion, diced
• 4 cloves garlic, minced
• 1 can (14.5 oz) diced tomatoes, undrained
• 2 1/2 cups low-sodium chicken broth
• 2 tablespoons olive oil
• 1 teaspoon ground cumin
• 1 teaspoon ground coriander
• 1 teaspoon smoked paprika
• 1/2 teaspoon ground turmeric
• 1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon
• 1/4 teaspoon cayenne pepper
• 1/2 cup golden raisins
• 1 1/2 teaspoons kosher salt, divided
• 1/2 teaspoon black pepper
• 1/4 cup fresh cilantro or flat-leaf parsley, roughly chopped
• Lemon wedges, for serving

Instructions

1. Season the chicken. In a small bowl, combine cumin, coriander, smoked paprika, turmeric, cinnamon, cayenne, 1 teaspoon salt, and black pepper. Pat chicken thighs dry with paper towels and rub the spice mixture evenly over all sides.
2. Brown the chicken. Heat olive oil in a large deep skillet or Dutch oven over medium-high heat. Add chicken skin-side down and cook undisturbed for 4–5 minutes until deep golden brown. Flip and cook 2 minutes more. Transfer to a plate; the chicken will not be fully cooked through yet.
3. Sauté the aromatics. Reduce heat to medium. Add onion to the same pan and cook, stirring occasionally, for 4–5 minutes until softened and beginning to brown at the edges. Add garlic and cook 1 minute more, stirring constantly.
4. Toast the rice. Add rice to the pan and stir to coat with the oil and onion mixture. Cook 2 minutes, stirring frequently, until the rice smells nutty and turns very lightly golden.
5. Build the braise. Pour in the diced tomatoes and chicken broth. Stir in the golden raisins and remaining 1/2 teaspoon salt. Bring the liquid to a boil over medium-high heat, scraping up any browned bits from the bottom of the pan.
6. Simmer together. Nestle the browned chicken pieces skin-side up on top of the rice mixture, pouring in any juices from the plate. Reduce heat to low, cover tightly with a lid or foil, and cook for 25–30 minutes until the rice is tender and the chicken registers 165°F at the thickest part.
7. Rest and finish. Remove from heat and let stand, still covered, for 5 minutes. Uncover, fluff the rice gently around the chicken with a fork, and scatter fresh cilantro or parsley over the top. Serve directly from the pan with lemon wedges alongside.

Nutrition (per serving)

Calories: 425 | Protein: 29g | Fat: 15g | Carbs: 44g | Fiber: 2g | Sodium: 570mg