For many years I have struggled with the effects of not being fluent in my family’s language. Some are specific. I sit across from my grandmother, waiting for my father to translate both sides of our conversation. I blush when people notice my last name and try to switch languages. I was teased by one of his uncles when my British boyfriend somehow spoke clearer Spanish than I did. Some emotions are a combination of shame, regret, and humor. I’m used to stumbling over words, sharp vowels and double r’s cutting my tongue, which has dulled over time.
But what shocked me was my lack of dexterity when making Mexican food recipes. family recipe. Outside of my grandmother’s kitchen, away from my father’s cooking, common dishes like rice and beans puzzled me and never tasted like I remembered them.
Get the recipe: Arroz Rojo (Mexican red rice)
The first time I tried to eat arroz rojo, or Mexican red rice, I lifted the lid of the pot to see a mound of pale yellow, oversalted mush. The idea that Latinas have their culture at their fingertips and embodies sensuality in every area of their lives, including the kitchen, persists in both popular media and dominant discourse. After tasting the rice, I thought I might be a defective model. This failure felt like a new veil had been placed between me, my family, and my heritage.
But I learned that even in the best of monolingual environments, translating the flavors of a dish is not an easy process. In her culinary epic “Small Fires,” Rebecca Mae Johnson uses classical reception studies to explore how written recipes are translated “from the medium of language to the physicality of ingredients flying around.” It is made clear that Just as those who translate and adapt Homer’s Odyssey bring their own context to the original text, so too do cooks approach a single dish or recipe in infinite ways.
When I started developing this recipe for arroz rojo, the challenge wasn’t about reading a recipe in Spanish or having my dad translate my aunt’s and grandmother’s advice, but rather about reaching across generations, cultures, and skill sets. I realized that it was about translating recipes.
Using a powerful combination of memory and research, I began experimenting. I tried both on the stovetop and in the oven, but his father seemed to randomly choose his method. I took notice of a Reddit user’s advice passed down from his own grandmother to wash rice thoroughly, also known as enjuagar or “batir el arroz,” to remove excess starch from the rice. I remember my dad using Caldo de Pollo Bouillon, which came in a neon yellow box. Every spoonful added saltiness and depth to the dish. I had seen canned versions both in recipes online and in my family’s kitchen, but I wanted to try fresh tomato sauce. And he did his best to avoid the spicy Russian roulette his father played with his rice when he added whole jalapenos, seeds and pith included, to the blended sauce.
My recipes are a translation of the culinary concept of Arroz Rojo and all the versions of the dish that I have tasted and enjoyed. The rice is soaked and toasted, and the fresh tomato, garlic and onion sauce is given an unconventional flavor by the vegetable broth and tomato paste. Instead of chopping the chili peppers finely or leaving them whole, I cut them in half and added the spices as the rice was cooking. In Mexican-American kitchens, it’s traditional to mix in frozen corn, carrots, and peas, but I sometimes add red peppers or rye beans.
I don’t know if my father, grandmother, or uncles or aunts would recognize this recipe written on paper. But I know that when I fluffed up the final version, mixed in a thin red layer of sauce, and let the fragrant steam release from the bottom, the aroma was familiar. It had a smooth taste.
A few months ago, my dad came to visit me in Washington, DC, and it gave me the perfect opportunity to pick his brain on Mexican food. I was taken to “¡Presente!”. The National Museum of American History chronicles the history of Latinos in the United States and its territories. In the middle of the exhibit, we sat in a small theater and watched a short film about what it means to be Latinx. A woman my age said she never had a full conversation beyond a few sentences with her grandmother because of the language barrier. Hearing my own reality out loud presented an unexpectedly heartbreaking perspective that I had never considered before.
But as the day went on, we picked out a new Mexican cookbook for him to take home with him to Minnesota, and I showed him one of my favorite local Latino supermarkets. Thinking about this recipe, I was reminded that the act of translation is not always verbal. Sometimes I cook rice in a pot. Sometimes you stand next to your loved one at the stove, filling each other’s plates and smiling quietly.
Get the recipe: Arroz Rojo (Mexican red rice)