The Best Red Sauce Chicken Enchiladas

Christmas was Sunday. The cinnamon rolls were perfect — twenty-two minutes at 350, cream cheese frosting, five children in pajamas on the kitchen floor because we ran out of chairs when Brandon's parents came Christmas Eve and the folding chairs were still in the living room. Noah ate frosting with his hands. Lily ate frosting with a spoon. Mason ate frosting with a cinnamon roll attached to it, technically. Olivia arranged her plate like a photograph. Ethan poured orange juice for everyone without being asked, and I thought: you are becoming a person, a real person who pours juice for his siblings, and I am so proud I could dissolve.

Grace's stocking was on the mantel. I hung it Christmas Eve — the small white one Mom embroidered with her name in September, before we knew September would be the last month anyone embroidered anything for Grace. I put a candy cane inside it. Lily checked it Christmas morning and said, "Santa came for Grace too," and I said yes, he did, and my voice held, and that was the Christmas miracle — not the presents or the rolls or the tree, but my voice holding when my daughter said her sister's name on Christmas morning.

Brandon's parents drove back to Idaho Falls on Monday. Linda left a casserole in the fridge with instructions taped to the lid, which I appreciate in theory and will improve upon in practice, because Linda's casserole instructions say "bake until done," which is not an instruction, Linda, it's a philosophy. I froze half of it. Waste nothing. That's the rule.

The week between Christmas and New Year's is strange — no school, no schedule, the children feral with sugar and new toys and the specific lawlessness that comes from having nowhere to be. I didn't do a formal prep session. I cooked from the freezer all week. Taco soup Monday. Pulled pork sandwiches Tuesday. Enchiladas Wednesday. The system I built in November carried us through December, every meal accounted for, every night fed. I counted: since November seventh, I have made and frozen seventy-three meals. Seventy-three. The accountant in me wrote that number down. The mother in me stared at it.

January is coming. The fourteenth is coming. The funeral potatoes are in the freezer, waiting. The new year will not be new — it will be the second year without Grace, which is not new but next, and next is the only direction available, so I face it. The freezer is full. The children are fed. The angel hangs on the tree. We made it through Christmas. We made it through. That's enough. That has to be enough.

Wednesday’s meal that whole strange week between Christmas and New Year’s was enchiladas — pulled straight from the freezer, into the oven, onto the table, just like November’s version of me had promised December’s version of me they would be. This is the recipe that earned its spot in the rotation, the one I make in batches of two pans so one can go into the freezer immediately and the other can feed whoever is sitting at my table that night. When the world feels unscheduled and feral and full of sugar and grief, a pan of enchiladas in a bold red sauce is the thing that says: someone planned for this, someone took care of you, someone thought ahead — and that someone was me, six weeks ago, on a Tuesday afternoon when I had the bandwidth to do it.

Prep Time: 25 min | Cook Time: 35 min | Total Time: 1 hr | Servings: 8

Ingredients

3 cups cooked, shredded chicken (rotisserie works perfectly)
12 medium flour or corn tortillas (6–8 inch)
2 1/2 cups shredded Monterey Jack or Mexican blend cheese, divided
1/2 cup sour cream, plus more for serving
1/2 cup finely diced white onion
1/4 cup chopped fresh cilantro (optional)
Red Enchilada Sauce:
3 tablespoons vegetable oil
3 tablespoons all-purpose flour
3 tablespoons chili powder
1 teaspoon ground cumin
1/2 teaspoon garlic powder
1/4 teaspoon dried oregano
1/4 teaspoon salt
2 1/2 cups low-sodium chicken broth
1 (8 oz) can tomato sauce

Instructions

Make the red sauce. In a medium saucepan over medium heat, whisk together the oil and flour and cook for 1 minute. Add the chili powder, cumin, garlic powder, oregano, and salt; whisk to combine. Slowly pour in the chicken broth while whisking constantly, then stir in the tomato sauce. Bring to a gentle simmer and cook 8–10 minutes, stirring occasionally, until the sauce thickens slightly. Remove from heat.
Mix the filling. In a large bowl, combine the shredded chicken, sour cream, diced onion, 1 cup of the shredded cheese, cilantro if using, and 1/3 cup of the prepared red sauce. Stir until evenly combined.
Preheat and prep the pan. Preheat your oven to 375°F. Spread 1/2 cup of the red sauce in an even layer across the bottom of a 9x13-inch baking dish.
Fill and roll. Working one at a time, spoon about 1/3 cup of the chicken filling down the center of each tortilla. Roll tightly and place seam-side down in the prepared baking dish. Repeat with remaining tortillas, fitting them snugly in the dish.
Sauce and top. Pour the remaining red sauce evenly over the rolled enchiladas, making sure to cover the ends so they don’t dry out. Sprinkle the remaining 1 1/2 cups of cheese over the top.
Bake. Cover the dish tightly with foil and bake for 20 minutes. Remove the foil and bake an additional 10–15 minutes, until the cheese is fully melted and bubbling at the edges.
Rest and serve. Let the enchiladas rest 5 minutes before serving. Top with sour cream, extra cilantro, or sliced avocado as desired.
To freeze (unbaked). Assemble the full pan through Step 5, then cover tightly with plastic wrap and then foil. Label with the date and “Bake covered at 375°F for 30 min, uncover and bake 15 min more.” Freeze up to 3 months. Thaw overnight in the refrigerator before baking, or add 15–20 minutes to covered bake time if going straight from frozen.

Nutrition (per serving)

The Best Red Sauce Chicken Enchiladas — The Meal That Carried Us Through December