Easy Chicken Enchilada Skillet

Nochebuena. Christmas Eve, year four. Luis Jr.'s first Christmas away from home. His chair at the table is empty and set and the emptiness is louder than any chair has a right to be. I set his place: the plate he always uses (the blue one, chipped on the edge, that he chose when he was seven because blue was his favorite color and the chip was "battle damage"), a glass of water, a napkin folded the way I fold them — triangle, not rectangle, because Rosa folded triangles and I fold triangles and triangles are the Delgado napkin fold.

Alejandro is not here — he is dead. Rosa is not here — she is dead. Both Javiers are not here — they are dead. Luis Jr. is not here — he is alive, somewhere, doing something I cannot know, eating something that is not my tamales (though the package should have arrived by now, and I pray the tamales survived, and the prayer is specific: God, let the tamales be warm. Let the chile colorado taste right. Let the corn husks be intact. Let my son eat Rosa's recipe in a desert that is not our desert, and let the recipe be a compass that points him home).

The dinner was beautiful. Carmen came. Andrea came (she is waiting; she is still waiting; the waiting has become her identity, the way the bakery became mine). The children were loud: Sofia managed the food with her clipboard, Diego counted the tamales (he counts everything), Isabella helped serve with the efficiency of a future nurse, and Camila sang carols between courses, because Camila believes that meals need a soundtrack and who am I to argue with a girl who just performed at the Abraham Chavez Theatre.

At midnight, we opened gifts. I gave each child something from Rosa — not physical objects (there are none left; Rosa owned nothing worth keeping except the recipes, and those are in the notebook) but stories. I wrote each child a letter about Rosa: what she would have said to them, how she would have reacted to their achievements, what she would have cooked for them. For Luis Jr. (to be mailed): "Rosa would have been terrified of the Army and proud of the soldier. She would have mailed you tamales every week. She would have prayed every rosary bead raw. She was the strongest woman I knew, and you are the strongest man I am raising, and the strength is the same, and the strength will bring you home."

I made everything. Every Rosa recipe. The table was a museum of her kitchen: chile colorado, tamales, flan, buñuelos, champurrado. The table was Rosa. And we ate her, the way communion eats the body — reverently, gratefully, knowing that the eating is the remembering and the remembering is the keeping and the keeping is the promise. Four Christmases without her. Four Christmases with her in every bite.

The full Rosa table — tamales, chile colorado, flan, buñuelos, champurrado — takes days, and I had days, because grief gives you time and love gives you purpose. But on the ordinary Tuesdays between Nochebuenas, when I need that red chile warmth without the weight of a full production, I come back to this skillet. It has the same soul: shredded chicken pulled apart the way Rosa pulled everything apart and put it back together better, enchilada sauce the color of our desert at dusk, cheese melting over the top the way comfort is supposed to settle — slowly, completely. I mail Luis Jr. tamales. But if he ever gets a kitchen and thirty minutes and a pan, I mail him this recipe too, because this is the flavor that points you home.

Prep Time: 10 minutes | Cook Time: 20 minutes | Total Time: 30 minutes | Servings: 6

Ingredients

2 lbs boneless, skinless chicken breasts
1 tablespoon olive oil
1 teaspoon chili powder
1 teaspoon ground cumin
1/2 teaspoon garlic powder
1/2 teaspoon onion powder
1/2 teaspoon smoked paprika
Salt and black pepper to taste
1 can (10 oz) red enchilada sauce
1 can (15 oz) black beans, drained and rinsed
1 can (15 oz) whole kernel corn, drained
1 can (10 oz) diced tomatoes with green chiles, undrained
1/2 cup low-sodium chicken broth
6 corn tortillas, cut into 1-inch strips
1 1/2 cups shredded Mexican cheese blend
Fresh cilantro, sour cream, and sliced avocado for serving (optional)

Instructions

Season the chicken. Pat chicken breasts dry and season both sides evenly with chili powder, cumin, garlic powder, onion powder, smoked paprika, salt, and pepper.
Cook the chicken. Heat olive oil in a large, deep skillet over medium-high heat. Add chicken and cook 6–7 minutes per side until cooked through and internal temperature reaches 165°F. Transfer to a cutting board and let rest 5 minutes.
Shred the chicken. Use two forks to shred the chicken into bite-sized pieces. Return shredded chicken to the skillet over medium heat.
Build the skillet. Add the enchilada sauce, black beans, corn, diced tomatoes with chiles, and chicken broth to the skillet. Stir everything together until evenly combined and the chicken is coated in sauce.
Add the tortilla strips. Nestle the corn tortilla strips into the skillet, pressing them lightly into the mixture so they begin to absorb the sauce. Stir gently to incorporate.
Simmer. Reduce heat to medium-low and let the skillet simmer uncovered for 8–10 minutes, stirring occasionally, until the sauce has thickened slightly and the tortilla strips have softened.
Melt the cheese. Scatter the shredded Mexican cheese blend evenly over the top of the skillet. Cover with a lid or tent with foil and cook 2–3 minutes until the cheese is fully melted and bubbly.
Serve. Spoon directly from the skillet into bowls. Top with fresh cilantro, a dollop of sour cream, and sliced avocado if desired. Serve immediately.

Nutrition (per serving)

Easy Chicken Enchilada Skillet — The Flavor That Points You Home