An ode to a macaron.

Ah, the ubiquitous ‘macaron’. I remember the first time I beheld one (long before people began furiously ‘pinning’ them senseless). I was skulking around a market in the South of France, probably in a mood because a) the only dress I deemed passable turned out to be a harem pant playsuit or b) the 67,000 piece brass band ruined my hangover coffee with their usual precise timing. Quickly swerving the caged chickens before the pang of guilt kicked in, I spotted these cheekily coloured discs. Lavender, mint and strawberry coloured little beauties- ‘give me 6’ I may or may not have said in my best ‘petit Francais’. 20 euros later, not sure whether to eat them or pan them for gold, I had a bite. My mouth was awash with hints of nothing, styrofoam and almond- Ooh la blah!

With the ramming down my throat of TV, social media and people squealing ‘Oooooo macarons!’ my forgettable culinary moment was awoken. In a pretentious moment, I thought I would whip up a batch myself and give all those poor pâtissier a day off (my pleasure lads). With unsifted almond flour and extra peaky peaks, I was the proud owner of pink dog turds.

Before I opened a shop in Paris to sell these turds, I needed some gear. £30 on a mat that had circles on it (in case I forgot what one looked like), a rubber piping bag that I could also use to ‘muck in’ during calving season, a posh gel dye (everything would have to be pink) and I was ready. The girls at work kindly said I had got better! Cheers birds.

Finally, my boyfriend brought some home from a real shop and said ‘The man said you have to practise 40 times before you improve’. Him buying macarons somewhere else and clearly slagging mine off to the proprietor of the bakery aside, I took heed of this advice. I gave myself a 4 month break, woke up on Valentine’s knowing that I’d be a pro. I sifted the almonds and piped an even pinker, flatter batch. Served them along side an afternoon tea, took a bite, and ‘Voila!’ – completely empty and dry as bone.