Researching the how-tos of making macarons was essentially a detailed illustration of my impending calamitous failures and a guide for my next of kin to begin the process of identifying features obscured by several layers of egg whites. Recipes included such helpful hints as:
“Do not vary the measurements in the slightest, unless you crave an emetic primordial goo.”
OR
“Be sure your meringue is stiffer than a Prohibitionist Era moonshine or you risk unmitigated disaster.”
OR
“If your batter doesn’t yield the elusive ‘figure-8’ consistency, do you even macaronage, bro?”
And so on.
Call me a glutton for punishment or a thrill-seeker, but the entire process of creating these confections delighted me. From the skin formed at the end of the drying process to the feet formed during baking, it was the kind of anatomy lesson that made me want to bring an apple the next day for Teacher. And the pièce de la résistance? A sweet friend, herself a sorceress of the stove, who travels to France nearly every year and makes “eat macarons” an itinerary item, tasted mine and proclaimed them the best she’d ever eaten! Even compared to ones she’d had in Paris, her gold standard. Really, it’s a wonder my hats still fit. That comment and these cute and colorful odes to joy made this bake worth the threat to life and limb.
*Dedicated to my baby sister. There’s nobody braver than you. Alles Gute zum Geburstag!
Incredibly Roux'd 