You may have heard of these otherworldly looking, brightly tinged, light as heavenly clouds, but packing hellish calories translating to ‘ridiculous hours at the gym’ confections. I’m referring to none other than the French Macaron. Now, now, lets not get hasty and have to give them a nationality. Actually, attempting to make them myself and failing the first six times, then having to clean the horrible mess left behind, caused me to learn how to swear in French.
I want to be able to make these because they’re unreal looking and cost two dollars each. They’re not even sold everywhere they are that pretentious but really, really good. You know you’re loved if someone buys you these as a gift. You know you’re being stalked by someone who has that amount of obsessive energy to actually make these for you. I say, take the cookies and run… don’t look back.
Its baker suicide to attempt making these and not barricade yourself in your non-humid kitchen, they’re freakin’ temperamental about climate. Turn the shades down, light-sensitive little monsters, get the kids out of the house, french macarons shrivel in fear at loud sounds. Turn the phones off, meditate prior, pop a Prozac, slip one in the batter too. Send appliances to the lab to be tested for germs on the sides of bowls and whisks. Once you’ve done all of that, you’re ready to have fun baking.
You’re supposed to let them air dry for about an hour. When they don’t because you may have missed an imaginary step, like the one that implies you bake these naked and whisper sweet nothings as you’re folding them …ever….so ….gently, then I suggest you ready a dark plastic bag and ditch them–admit nothing! Proceed in making yourself an omelet with the ten cholesterol yellow egg yolks and watch a French soap opera.