There are meals that feed you, and meals that mark your life. Paella, for me, has become both. My husband first cooked it for us more than a decade ago, balancing a 22-inch-wide castiron skillet over the basin of an old washing machine filled with firewood. Standing in his South Anchorage backyard with his roommates on a crisp May evening, we watched the rice dish come together in anticipation. We were celebrating the end of another long Alaska winter with a frizzled rice feast. After eating as much as we could, I remember packing up the leftovers: two plastic containers for everyone to take home and keep the celebration of summer going.
At the time, my husband and I were just friends. But, over the years—through shared apartments, long winters, the subtle negotiations of building a life together—paella became one of our first true traditions. It was the meal that required us to slow down, to plan ahead, and to trust the process.
Beyond backyards, we’ve hauled the paella set up across Alaska: to grassy fields on the Kenai Peninsula, to busy Anchorage parks, and to rocky gravel driveways. Cooking outdoors in Alaska means constant tending, making sure the fire is fed, the pan is rotated for even cooking, and that errant sparks aren’t igniting any accidental fires nearby. Wood smoke clings to jackets. Mosquitoes make their rounds. We tell people to bring camp chairs, and we put out a folding table with our mise en place.
Our ingredients reflect where we live. Fresh Alaska seafood anchors the pan—firm white rockfish or halibut, always shrimp, big fresh scallops, sometimes crab when we’re feeling extra, and maybe even halibut stock if we have it on hand. Arborio rice, onions, paprika, and an assortment of pork, chicken, and seafood are the building blocks of this classic Spanish dish. There is careful layering: stock ladled in, proteins tucked into place, and fresh lemons arranged like punctuation. Saffron threads steeped in warm broth release a honeyed color. It’s slow and showy, requiring patience and a kind of faith that all those precious ingredients won’t go to waste and will come together in the end. While the paella cooks, people draw closer— curious about the fire, the basin, the process, and the celebration at the center of it all.
Since that first paella in 2015, this dish has become a way for us to celebrate milestones: birthdays, weddings, the start of the summer, the arrival of long light. What started in the backyard as an experiment has become an annual tradition, a reason to get outside and be social when the sun refuses to set. Some years it’s modest: a small circle, simple ingredients, jackets still on. Other times it’s extravagant, with a yard full of friends, extra seafood, someone opening a bottle meant for an occasion exactly like this. It’s always outdoors; it’s always unrushed. It always brings us closer to each other and reminds us that we continue growing into ourselves and that we don’t have to do it alone. The people we invite to paella, our chosen family, have been gathered slowly and with care. Every summer, we build the fire again. And it tastes like saffron and smoke on a bright Alaska night.
