“Irish” Spanish Rice

My mother could burn water; she was such a bad cook. My grandmother, my father’s mother, was even worse. When I asked my Dad how he had learned to cook so well, he replied: It was self preservation.

Growing up I made dinner many nights for my siblings, and as I gained experience fancied myself quite the chef—perhaps not Gourmet Magazine standard—but I could turn out a well seasoned meatball, a flavorful salad and a terrific blueberry muffin.

I could hold my own in the kitchen; my brother and sisters gobbled up my offerings, always insisting, it was great; even if it was hot dogs and potato salad. Then I moved in with my future husband. Are all Puerto Rican men this spoiled? He did not like leftovers and would turn his nose up at delicious dishes.

One Saturday I thought let’s surprise him with something special—Spanish rice. I pulled out my cookbook and gathered my ingredients which were plentiful and savory.

Sweating in the kitchen for an hour or so, produced, what I thought was a decent Spanish rice. At the time, I had not been paying attention to what this dish should look like—yellow rice with minuscule bits of veggies, along with a tomato broth to cook the rice. My Spanish rice had giant chunks of green pepper and blobs of tomato stuck out here and there.

My husband fell off the dining room chair laughing. This has come to be known in our house as my “Irish” Spanish rice dish.

Since then I have discovered Goya products. Thanks, God!