Italian Hot Chocolate – Cioccolata Calda

A mug of Italian hot chocolate with freshly whipped cream

Yes,  I know, it’s been ages since you’ve heard from me, but I have a legitimate reason for the silence and, no, my “reason” isn’t that I’ve been lazy.  If you are reading this post for illumination on where I’ve been and what I’ve been doing these past three months,  I’m sorry to disappoint, but I’m saving that story for another day.  Stay tuned.

Today,  you’ll find me sitting at a dining room table, swaddled in a bright orange down comforter in a chilly, yet cozy cabin just off the main road in Angels Camp, CA.  Outside my window, sun-spattered rolling golden hills dotted with majestic live oaks belie the chilly temperatures outside my door.  Yesterday, an unexpected “bomb cyclone” made for a grey, cold and wet day  – and fevered conversations about hot chocolate steaming away on the camp stove.

Let’s face it,  American hot chocolate is insipid at best – lackluster, brown-colored Swiss Miss® water at its worst.  We are not celebrated for our chocolate beverage prowess in the States.  The Spanish, with their thick chocolate and churros, are world-renowned for their rich, dark, dippable rather than drinkable, chocolate and they stand proudly at the apex of the hot chocolate pyramid of deliciousness.  Not far behind them are the French and their “chocolat chaud,” The rich beverage available for sipping on chilly Parisian streets.  Christmas mornings, my sister combines copious quantities of Ghirardelli Double Chocolate cocoa powder,  a smidge of sugar, and an equal ratio of whole milk to heavy whipping cream in an effort to recall her memories of the decadent beverage sipped in the City of Lights. Her final result?  Satisfying, but not quite mind-blowing.  I must admit, however, until last night,  I was entirely in the dark when it came to Cioccolata Calda, Italy’s version of the drink.  I’ve been fortunate to visit Italy and, during my travels, study, as well as indulge in, its cuisine.  Accordingly,  I’m familiar with Italian espresso, various wines and their regions, amaro, limoncello, nocino, grappa, and the early evening Aperol spritz, leaving nary any room for something as seemingly innocuous as hot chocolate.  Oh, what have I been missing?!

Last night, with my first (scalding) sip,  my hot chocolate world expanded. I could use poetic words like “decadent,” “rich,” “silky,” and “fudgy” to describe this ganache in a mug,  but today I’ve decided to be straightforward – the Italians can call their hot chocolate what they like, but it is, in essence, a mug of warm chocolate pudding before it has been allowed to set – milk, cream, cornstarch and dark chocolate…the makings of a most excellent creamy dessert – and damn indulgent hot chocolate.  It would be made only more satisfying with crisp biscotti for dunking.  This Christmas,  I’ll be taking the reins on the morning beverage; step aside, Sis.

Forgive the less than professional photo – and the inartfully dolloped cream.  As mentioned above,  my inaugural recipe was created over a camp stove; the cream “whipped” in a vigorously shaken plastic container.  Nevertheless,  the results did not disappoint, possibly even made more delicious by our rustic surroundings. The Spanish may have Chocolate and Churros; we had Patagonia and Cioccolata Calda.

Tip:  You don’t want the hot chocolate to boil (212° F), but you need to heat it to a temperature of 203° F for the cornstarch’s thickening properties to activate.  Don’t rush the process by turning up the heat – be patient, heat it slowly, and stir often.

Italian Hot Chocolate

This ultra-thick, rich and not overly sweet elixir will change the way you think about hot chocolate. This recipe should make two servings, but I find it so decadent (even for me!) that it can easily stretch to 4 servings. With the addition of coffee, this belly warmer also makes a five-star mocha.


  • 1 cup whole milk, divided
  • 1 cup heavy whipping cream
  • 3 Tablespoons sugar
  • 1 ½ teaspoons cornstarch
  • 4 ½ oz. dark chocolate, finely chopped
  • Tiny pinch salt (optional)
  • Lightly sweetened, freshly whipped cream


  1. In a small saucepan over medium-low heat, whisk together ¾ cup whole milk, heavy whipping cream and sugar until small bubbles begin to form around the edges (don’t boil).
  2. Meanwhile, in a small bowl, stir together the remaining ¼ cup milk and cornstarch. Set aside.
  3. Once the milk is heated, add the cornstarch mixture and whisk for 30 seconds to combine. Add dark chocolate and salt and continue whisking for about 7 minutes until the chocolate has fully melted and the mixture thickly coats the back of a spoon (similar to a thin chocolate sauce). Pour into 2 coffee mugs (or 4 demitasse cups if you want to show restraint). Top with a dollop of freshly whipped cream. Careful – since this hot chocolate is so thick, it holds heat better than your regular brew; sip carefully.


Simple Old-Fashioned Rice Pudding

Two servings of rice pudding with stawberries

Today’s Musings:
My friend, Frenchy, asked me to show him photos of recent desserts that made me proud, because, “you know, you’re never happy with the outcome. You think it doesn’t taste good or the texture is off, or there’s some other issue.” Frenchy’s correct…partially. He’s a musician and should understand the creative process. I challenge him to write a song,  from beginning to end, without adjustments, without tinkering until he is pleased with it; not a piece that is “good enough” for his audience, but a work that makes him proud.  A recipe rarely comes out perfect the first time and, if it does,  it often cannot be duplicated with the same results the second or third.  Tinkering is needed.   It’s part of the process. 

Yet, I won’t deny that I’m also my worst critic.  Self-doubt and I have done battled in the ring since childhood.  Regardless of what others may think,  and I’ve heard my share of snarky comments,  this is not feigned modesty constructed in an effort to appear meek and humble or garner compliments.  Confidence has been a lifelong struggle.  I remember a fellow student in culinary school,  Michelle,  who always seemed self-assured, even when she screwed up,  even when she undercooked her shrimp or used a recipe from Epicurious and called it her own.  And,  the thing was,  Chef bought it.  Chef loved her, thought she was the best,  because she was self-confident.  I, on the other hand, have often felt I’m one step away from being found out as a fraud.  Although,  confidence does not necessarily translate into competence. 

Over these last few years over the last year,  if I’m really honest my self-confidence has improved…in my baking, in my writing, in my photography, partially due to the feedback and encouragement of my friends and readers,  but also because I’m beginning to silence that incessant critic inside me.  I may not have Michelle’s hubris yet,  but I’m trying.  I recently found the following, illustrating just how far I’ve come: 

With clammy hands tightly gripping the steering wheel, I gulp pranayama breaths of air, desperately trying to calm down. A cake box filled with my future slides around on the passenger side floor. I am running late.

I’m taking my tarts to the owner of the Steakhouse for final judgment. My worst critic, me, appraises the final products harshly. A week before, I was a proud cock, crowing about my tarts – the best key lime ever! Today, as I test and decorate them, my confidence crumbles. The key lime is too sweet and its crust is gummy. I re-bake it. The coconut cream is dry, flat, and lacking coconut flavor. I re-bake it. The lemon tart is cloudy on the surface and a little undercooked. If I had more filling, I would re-bake this one as well. I attempt to cover up its flaws with powdered sugar and whipped cream. The apricot-almond seems overcooked and lacking flavor, I also re-bake it. The hours tick by; my kitchen is a war zone with sheet-pans and counters scattered with the bodies of discarded tarts.

Can’t I call him and cancel, start over, and wait until I produce something I deem remarkable?

I can’t endure criticism and my fear of it has only grown with each new culinary plan, scheme, and pursuit. Negative comments sear my skin and positive ones bounce off the scars, unable to sink in. It’s a throwback from my youth, I am sure. In our house, crushing another’s confidence was how you buoyed your own worth and superiority. Now, the effects paralyze me.

I drive the tarts to him and gather courage in the parking lot. He gives me bottles of wine as payment for my work and we chat. He doesn’t fear failure and I admire him for that. We talk about how difficult it is to tell a vendor their product isn’t any good, like breaking up with someone – “It’s not you, it’s me!”

I can’t do it. I can’t watch as my work is judged. I ask him to taste them after I leave, share them with the staff, and call me with his feedback. I cannot endure a breakup, not from him, not now. I wait. My phone is silent and I am deflated.

– Written 2014

He finally did call.  He loved the key lime, coconut and apricot-almond. You are probably expecting one of these recipes to be listed below.  Nope, not today. 

Today’s Recipe:

Simple Old-Fashioned Rice Pudding

  • Servings: About 4 half-cup servings
  • Print

Many rice pudding recipes call for raw rice and 45 minutes or more of simmering. With this recipe, you can have comforting rice pudding in less than 10 minutes.


  • 1 Tablespoon corn starch
  • ¼ cup sugar
  • Pinch salt
  • ⅛ teaspoon cinnamon
  • 1 large egg
  • 1 cup milk
  • 1 cup cooked rice, cooled
  • ¼ t. vanilla extract or 2 teaspoons brandy


  1. In a medium saucepan, whisk together corn starch, sugar, salt and cinnamon. Whisk in egg, then milk, and finally cooked rice.
  2. Place saucepan on medium heat and bring to a simmer, whisking constantly. Simmer for 4-5 minutes until pudding is thickened and the texture of oatmeal. Take off heat and whisk in vanilla extract or brandy. I enjoy eating rice pudding warm from the stovetop. If you prefer chilled rice pudding, place in a dish and cover with plastic wrap, ensuring the plastic wrap makes contact with the pudding surface to avoid a skin.

Frenchy’s Chocolate Raspberry Tart with Pistachio Crust

A chocolate raspberry tart with a slice on a plate

Today’s Musings:
I recognize this evening as a non-starter before I even order my Sauvignon Blanc. I realize before this ass of mine has warmed the bar stool. There’s no chemistry – no spice. I’m more interested in the cute, tattooed bartender (alas, a wedding ring) than the man beside me. Before my first sip of wine, my date has managed to “casually touch” my thigh and arm a half-dozen times during conversation. I don’t need to wear my body language decoder ring – I get it; you’re interested, now back off. Our tactile evening continues with me receiving a demonstration of his co-worker’s hugging techniques followed by an unsolicited and awkward one-handed back rub. He has unquestionably grabbed or stroked me at least three dozen times. Body language hint – if your date is slowly sliding away to regain her personal space, stop with the hands! Ten minutes into the conversation, he declares that he wants to “claim” me as his own and our next date should be in my neighborhood. Next date?! I’m squirming through this one – and I’m beginning to believe you’re stalker material as well. Okay…polite conversation, polite conversation; I can do this; just finish my wine and leave – fast. I’m out the door in 40-minutes flat, but he insists on walking me to my car. Please don’t try to hug, kiss, or molest me at my vehicle. Not surprisingly, I receive his text on the 10-minute drive home, “Good night, Sweetheart.” Sweetheart – already?! Disturbing.

Reaching the safety of home, I’m tempted to bee-line for the kitchen and bake up a batch of David Lebovitz’s chocolate chip cookies – culinary Xanax. This type of dating debacle deserves an edible pacifier – a dozen warm, gooey cookies or even a chocolate cake with thick chocolate frosting – devoured in one sitting. I content myself with a turkey sandwich and Netflix instead.

Today’s Recipe:
This recipe was especially made for my friend, Frenchy.  When it comes to dating, he’s the Jerry Seinfeld to my Elaine, always good for a few dating horror stories of his own.  But rather than chatting about our pitiful love lives over a “Big Salad,” we prefer coffee and dessert.  This one is especially for you,  Frenchy!  

Frenchy’s Chocolate Raspberry Tart with Pistachio Crust

  • Servings: One 9” tart
  • Print

The raspberry coulis is a must to help cut the richness of this decadently sinful dessert. If you love chocolate and raspberries, this dessert is for you.


  • 1 cup (about 10 cookies) shortbread crumbs, such as Lorna Doone
  • 1 cup pistachios, raw
  • 3 Tablespoons sugar
  • pinch salt
  • 3 Tablespoons unsalted butter, melted
  • Filling
  • 1 lbs. dark chocolate
  • 1 ¾ cup heavy cream
  • 7 large egg yolks, beaten
  • ½ teaspoon instant espresso (optional)
  • ½ cup seedless raspberry jam
  • 12 oz. fresh raspberries
  • Raspberry Coulis
  • ½ cup sugar
  • 3 Tablespoons water
  • 12 oz. frozen raspberries, thawed
  • 1 Tablespoon raspberry or orange liqueur (optional)


  1. Preheat oven to 350° F. Combine shortbread crumbs, pistachios, sugar and salt in a food processor and process until finely ground. Add melted butter and process until mixture begins to clump and resembles wet sand. Press crust along the bottom and up the sides of a 9” tart pan. Bake until crust is golden and smells like roasted pistachios, about 12 minutes. Cool.
  2. Chop chocolate and place in a microwave-safe bowl. Microwave at 30-second intervals, stirring in-between, until chocolate is fully melted, about 1 ½-2 minutes. Cool slightly.
  3. Whisk together heavy cream, beaten egg yolks, and instant espresso (if using). Add melted chocolate and whisk until fully combined.
  4. Fill crust with chocolate mixture and bake in a 350° F. oven until top is firm to the touch but center still jiggles slightly, 25-30 minutes. Cool 30 minutes and then refrigerate until completely cold.
  5. While tart is cooling, make raspberry coulis by combining sugar and water in a heat-proof liquid measuring cup. Microwave on high power for 2 minutes and stir to ensure all sugar crystals are dissolved. Combine this simple syrup with thawed raspberries in a blender. Blend until smooth. With a rubber spatula, stir and push puree through a fine-mesh strainer to catch the seeds. Add liqueur, if using. Store in the refrigerator up to a week.
  6. When tart is cool, heat seedless raspberry jam in a small bowl in the microwave until it is liquid. Brush top of tart with warm jam, arrange fresh raspberries on top, and brush raspberries with more jam. Serve tart with raspberry coulis.

Blue Cheese and Bacon Deviled Eggs

Today’s Musings:
I wrote the following a month ago, never knowing that Bill Cosby would be released a mere dozen days later. 

I’ve never been a fan of Gloria Allred.  It may be remnants of my father’s utter dislike for this brash, outspoken, opinionated woman.  The fairer sex, he believed, belongs in the H. O. M. E.  not marching with a sign that says, “N. O. W.”  Of course,  if Gloria was named Glen,  my dad would see him as a “man’s man” and wholeheartedly embrace him.   I’ve changed my tune about Gloria. I gained a new appreciation for Ms. Allred after recently watching the 2018 documentary, Seeing Allred. Is she loud?  Is she brash?  Is she a publicity hound?  Yes,  but perhaps she needs that persona to be heard above the din of the persistent, ever-present inequality in America.  The Bill Cosby sexual abuse scandal takes up a fair portion of the documentary.  What surprised me was the number of women who spoke up with similar stories and yet, when the first handful of victims came forward,  the majority of Americans didn’t believe – “Oh no,  not Bill Cosby,  not Cliff Huxtable, not America’s dad.” “These women just want money or they’re actresses looking for publicity.”  In the court of public opinion,  these women were shredded for shining a light on something no one wanted to see.   The tide didn’t seem to turn until dozens of women stepped forward, and, still,  those women faced vicious attacks from disbelievers.  It reminds me of the accusations regarding Michael Jackson in Finding Neverland.  Michael still retains a huge, die-hard fan base, despite shockingly similar stories of sexual abuse from disparate victims. “We love you, Michael. We believe in you.”  Fans need to understand that the public Michael Jackson isn’t the Michael behind closed doors.  I believe the accusers – and you should, too. 

If you perform a Google search,  one of the top three definitions of sexual assault is,  “an act in which one person intentionally sexually touches another person without that person’s consent, or coerces or physically forces a person to engage in a sexual act against their will.”   If you were to ask me if I’ve been sexually assaulted,  I would answer, “Thankfully, no,”  imagining date rape or a stranger jumping out from behind a tree,  but the truer answer would be an ambiguous, “Maybe.”

I willingly entered Ted’s house.  I happily drank wine with him, becoming a little tipsy – not incapacitatedly drunk,  but tipsy…two or three glasses.  I voluntarily joined him in his bedroom to fool around (his roommate was on the couch).  Yet,  I  did not come over, nor was I prepared, to have sex that night. He had different plans.  He tried to take our make-out session further, I rebuffed him.  He attempted  to take it further a second time, I rebuffed again, and again, and again. I never consented.  Did he force me down and rip off my clothes?  No, but  I remember feeling like a 16-year-old Sophomore in a car’s back seat fighting off a hormone-fueled Senior’s attack  – except I was 37; Ted was 41.  He was bigger; he was stronger; he wasn’t letting up.  I eventually acquiesced, tired of trying to redirect his energies.  You are probably asking,

“You are a strong, independent woman.  Why didn’t you just get up and leave?” 

That is a legitimate question – and one I would ask if I was in your position.  I will share my thoughts at the time.  Are these excuses for my inaction? No, but they provide context,  perspective.  I didn’t leave because I  thought I liked this man.  I didn’t shove him away with force because I was attracted to this man.   I didn’t jump up from the bed because I wanted to have sex with this man – but not yet, not that night.  If I had jumped off the bed, screamed “stop” at the top of my lungs, grabbed my purse and ran out,  I have no doubt he would have let me leave;  he wouldn’t have pursued.  He probably would have told his friends I was a crazy bitch, but he wouldn’t have brutalized me.   Yet,  doesn’t my “no” mean “no?” I never told a living soul this story until today,  18 years after the event. 

Which reminds me of the time I went to my GP for my annual physical.  I had been seeing this doctor for 8 years, believed him to be an excellent medical professional, and I trusted him.  During my physical,  he insisted on a pelvic exam.  I assured him it was unnecessary because my OB/GYN performed a pelvic exam just six months prior – and all tests came back normal.  Yet,  with his medical “authority,” he dismissed my declination (the OB/GYN’s report was not in his notes)  and pushed for the exam I didn’t want.

Are you once again asking, “You are a strong, independent woman.  Why didn’t you get up and leave?” 

That is a legitimate question – and one I would ask if I was in your position.  I didn’t get up and leave because he was my doctor, an expert in a position of power.  I didn’t firmly tell him, “Absofuckinglutely not,” because I had been in his care as a patient for eight years without incident.  I rationalized, “why make a big deal about this – it’s not the first nor last pelvic I’ll endure.” I acquiesced.  If I had jumped off the examining room table, screamed “stop” at the top of my lungs, grabbed my clothes and ran out,  I have no doubt he would have allowed me to leave;  he wouldn’t have  blocked the exit.  He probably would have told the nurses I was an overly sensitive, sexually-repressed woman, but he wouldn’t have forced me.  He performed the pelvic exam…without a female nurse present – any woman knows that’s an odd and uncommon practice.  The exam itself seemed routine.  I couldn’t actually see what he was doing,  but nothing overtly untoward felt like it was happening.  Yet, afterwards,  I felt violated.  I did not give him my consent.  Was this merely a case of an overzealous, egotistical  doctor dismissing my declination of  the exam in favor of his own medical decision – or something more perverse?  I truly don’t know, but I left his office questioning the experience and feeling ashamed and invaded.  For my next annual physical,  I found a new doctor – a woman.  I told her why I left my previous MD – said I didn’t know if his actions were malevolent or not, but I refused to be his patient any longer.  Besides her,  I never told another person until today. 

Have I ever been sexually assaulted?  What is your answer –  because I truly don’t know?  But, please,  if someone (male or female)  is brave enough to step forward with an accusation of abuse, sexual or otherwise, – listen to them, believe them.  You weren’t in the room with them, you don’t know all sides of the person you are defending.  The victim may have experienced a side of the abuser you’ve never seen.  Mr. Wonderful, Bill Cosby, may not be so wonderful behind closed doors when there’s something he wants.  “But what about the false claims of abuse that are just payback for something else altogether?” you ask.  Do false sexual abuse accusations arise?  Absolutely,  but don’t assume the aberrant is the norm.  Many easier and less humiliating methods of extracting payback exist.  It takes courage to speak up and speak out.  One must have thick skin to endure the disbelievers, the hostile opponents who will shout “liar” from their soapbox,  turn their back on the victim. His friends will try to silence the victim insisting, even if it did happen, the victim should keep quiet, not rock the boat,  just get over it.  “How dare you speak out and sully the abuser’s reputation!”  The victim is acutely aware they must go to battle and, even then, they may still not be believed. If it takes a victim 10, 20, 30 years to come forward to tell their story, to speak their truth,  we must have compassion and understand that the event was not only traumatic, but confusing,  embarrassing, and perhaps not clear cut. The abused often feels partially responsible; They may fear the retaliation from the abuser’s fans or cadre.  The victim, however,  can’t “just get over it.”  They’ve carried the incident with them;  They haven’t forgotten.  They’ve been carefully weighing the benefits versus the damage speaking up will cause – lines will be drawn; sides will be taken.   They’ve been physically and/or emotionally assaulted once;  they don’t deserve to endure that again.   I’m not suggesting we label every possible abuser, “guilty until proven innocent,” but also, we mustn’t  insist that 20 victims come forward before we believe the first who was brave enough to say, “I was abused.” 

Today’s Recipe:


Blue Cheese and Bacon Deviled Eggs

This is my go-to appetizer to bring to a drinks party, nostalgic with a modern twist.


  • 3 tablespoons mayonnaise
  • 3 tablespoons finely chopped celery
  • 2 tablespoons drained pickle relish
  • 2 tablespoons finely chopped scallion
  • 2 tablespoons crumbled blue cheese
  • 2 teaspoons Dijon mustard
  • 2 dashes hot sauce, such as Tapitio
  • Freshly ground black pepper
  • 8 large eggs, hard boiled, peeled
  • 2 slices cooked bacon, cut into 8 pieces each


  1. In a small bowl, combine mayonnaise, celery, pickle relish, scallion, blue cheese, Dijon, hot sauce and black pepper to taste.
  2. Slice eggs in half and scoop yolks into mayonnaise mixture. Combine yolks and mayonnaise mixture with a folk until well blended.
  3. Using a large star tip nozzle, pipe mixture into egg halves. Decorate with bacon and serve.

Firefighter’s Jambalaya

Today’s Musings:
An artifact formerly excavated…

Russell claimed his eyes were hazel, but I disagreed.  Russell is slightly colorblind, so  he’s never looked in a mirror and contemplated the nuances of his irises;  he’s relied on others’ interpretations.  I’m reminded of that parable about the three blind men and an elephant.  Perhaps, at one specific moment, on a particular day,  his eyes did appear hazel, but they are not so easily described.  Hazel is a catch-all category,  for those lacking the vocabulary to describe an iris’s shade in more, um, er, colorful terms.  Hazel eyes, by definition,  are a combination of green, brown, and golden hues, decidedly not the shade of Russell’s.  I’m the one with eyes of hazel – a drab olive green with rays of russet brown and a few flecks of ocher. When asked,  I liken their unremarkable color to dirty pond water. 

Russell’s eyes were grey – a light bluish slate. He dismissed my assessment, assuring me his driver’s license states differently and also insisting I’m the only person who has ever mentioned the smoke-hued mirrors beneath his lashes.  Has anyone else bothered to examine them closely, I wonder?  Their shade rippled, mutable, depending on his clothes or the light, shifting from pale sky to the faintest sage. I’m sure the silver from his hair held sway over these misty specters, as well.

When in the throes of passion or paroxysms of anger – states I witnessed in equal measure – these portholes to his psyche grew graphite dark,  like storm clouds just before the deluge.  When our romance still blossomed,  this kaleidoscope of shifting greys and blues and greens transfixed me; the emerging of a yet unobserved color arresting me mid-sentence with their beauty.  However, once his kindness drained away, replaced by indifference and contempt,  I was met with windows of the bleakest winter, two gravestones,  hard, cold, and unyielding grey as he seethed and accused. 

I examine images of his face now, looking deeply in eyes both right and left, trying to fathom how I was fooled – and only flat, blank, detached emptiness stares back at me.

Today’s Recipe:

Firefighter’s Jambalaya

This jambalaya is a hearty combination of sausage, ham, chicken, and shrimp that can feed a large family or small party.


  • 4 Tablespoons ( ½ stick) unsalted butter
  • 1 lbs. Andouille or smoked sausage, sliced
  • 1 lbs. ham steak, diced
  • 1 lbs. chicken thighs, skin, boned and diced
  • 1 medium onion, chopped
  • 3 stalks celery, chopped
  • 1 green pepper, chopped
  • 4 scallions, sliced
  • 4 garlic cloves, minced
  • 2 c. rice, uncooked
  • 4 Tablespoons, flour
  • 2 bay leaves
  • 1 teaspoon thyme
  • 1 teaspoon salt
  • 1 teaspoon white pepper
  • ½ teaspoon cayenne
  • ¼ teaspoon cumin
  • ¼ teaspoon allspice
  • 1 14 ½ oz. canned tomatoes, chopped
  • 8 cups beef stock
  • 2 lbs. raw shrimp, peeled and deveined


  1. Melt butter in a large, heavy, Dutch oven. Cook sausage, ham, and chicken until beginning to brown. Add onion, celery, green pepper and scallions and lightly brown. Add garlic and cook until fragrant, 30 minutes. Add rice and combined. Stir in flour and spices. Add canned tomatoes and stock. Bring to a boil, reduce and simmer until rice is cooked through, 35 – 45 minutes.
  2. Add shrimp and cook another 5-7 minutes until shrimp is cooked.