Some families measure time in holidays or seasons. Mine?
We measure it in rice cycles.

There is no event, meaning no holiday, no random Tuesday, no meteorological anomaly, that escapes the gravitational pull of “un arrocito”. Rice is our North Star. Our comfort blanket. Our family contract written not in ink, but in sofrito.

Honestly, it’s almost Pavlovian at this point. Someone says “dinner,” and I’m already reaching for the “olla, the sacred pot passed down through generations that has probably witnessed more drama than my group chats.

And then Thanksgiving rolled around.

Now, we had already planned a menu that would make a nutritionist silently weep. Carbs on carbs with a side of carbs:

– Stuffing
-Mashed potatoes
-Mac and cheese
-Starchy veggies
-French onion tartlets because why not become an honorary potato yourself?

But even with this botanical bounty of starch, something in the universe felt off. Too quiet. Too smooth. Too non-rice-y.

And then it happened. I looked around the kitchen, paused, squinted like a Colombo or Matlock and said out loud:

“Oh no. I need to make yellow rice.”

It came out of me like ancestral muscle memory. Centuries of abuelas and tias whispered through my DNA. M’ija… the rice!

Next thing I know, I’m channeling that comedian I saw on Instagram. The comedian whose mom learns that cousins are coming over and immediately shouts, “¡Ay Dios mío, I need the OLLA!” Not just a pot. THE pot. The spiritual one. The one that says, “People are coming. We must feed them. This is who we are.” I wish I could remember his name and give him props. Did I previously mention I’m bad with names? Anyhoo..

There I was, on Thanksgiving, already knee-deep in carbs, still summoning my own personal Olla of Destiny. Measuring out the Goya seasoning like a seasoned witch casting a spell. Stirring like my life depended on it.

Because the truth is this. Some families have traditions. Mine has rice. Regardless of how many carbs you already have loaded into the meal, there will be rice. You caught the film reference, right?

You can add peas, beans, memories, regrets and still there will be rice. You can dress it up yellow, keep it humble white, throw in pigeon peas, black beans, pink beans. It doesn’t matter. There must be rice. It is written. It’s like a signed contract we write with our first crying fit into the world.

So yes, my table had turkey and duck and mac and cheese, but standing proud at the center, gleaming gold like a carbohydrate trophy, was the yellow rice I just had to make.

Some people talk about family legacies. Mine? Simple.

Where there is family, there is rice.
And honestly? I wouldn’t have it any other way. Even if I have to do the elliptical for a bit longer. Who am I kidding a lot longer.  Viva la rice!