Macaroon-ifesto

During the summer, Farf and I made 600 million macaroons for a Birthday. We made chocolate ones, and coffee ones and lemon ones and mint ones and the most spectacular lavender macaroons. The lavender ones were particularly good because we stole the lavender. You know the way illicit things are always the best? The secret gin and tonic you have on your own, the extra hour in bed when you should really be working, the smarties you sneak into the library. We stole the lavender from the bountiful tubs outside the British Library when Farf came to visit me in August. Her shoplifting techniques are better than mine – despite my penchant for nicking anything that isn’t nailed down, I still need to work on my ‘subtle’ face. How I managed to escape from Holloway Road Morrisons with a stolen jar of mayonnaise (organic, naturally) is a mystery to me, and all who know me. Farf and I were supposed to be working in the library on our dissertations, but actually we just sat in the cafe watching episodes of Sharpe on her laptop (another excellent illicit thing). One hot, fragrant August day, having spent many unfruitful hours in the British Library, we spotted the lavender and made our move. Farf had arrived in my house bearing recipes for cupcakes and diverse macaroons, and we knew instantly that the lavender would be stars.

And they were. We set up shop in my kitchen with an IVF ward full of egg whites, many ground almonds, and dubious ‘natural’ food colourings that mostly just meant the ensuing colours were varying shades of mud (sorry Farf), and we set to work. We both worked on different flavours (I can’t remember who was which) and with the aid of my temperamental oven and Rachel’s egg whisk, mixed up batch after batch. I think we made ten of everything, and twenty of the lavender. Which was a good call, because the lavender were multiple versions of herbal heaven. We also shortly discovered that Farf was much better at making them than I was. I still don’t know why – maybe, having made them before, I was just more paranoid than she was. Macaroons can sense your fear and will act up accordingly, like particularly petulant Jack Russels.  All the macaroons tasted heavenly, when sandwiched with accordingly scented and coloured buttercreams, but some were more moussey than others. As I remember, the lavender had much the best flavour, but the chocolate had the best texture.

That’s the next secret: Macaroons are HARD. Even after that epic baking session, subsequent macaroons were subject to failure – I tried to make a batch as a farewell present in the middle of September and just ended up wasting a dozen egg whites (second note: macaroons are bloody expensive to make) when the ensuing gooey mass had to be thrown out.  They’re very temperamental, and the macaroon psyche seems to waver according to size of egg, quality of almonds, and atmospheric pressure, as well as its horoscope, probably.

But Farf and I are troopers: despite our setbacks, we’re going to persevere. Despite the fact that I like eating macaroons much more than I like making them, we have started this blog, our manifesto for macaroons. Apart from anything else, anyone with a macaroon fetish will know that buying them is a crippling invitation to bankruptcy. In the last couple of weeks I have been sampling those of Ladurée (salted caramel divine, pistachio frankly disgusting) and Pierre Marcolini (really, enough with the strange tea flavoured macaroons. But the rose ones are like little celestial prayers on the tongue). Call me conceited, but I think we can do better, if only because ours will always be fresh. And there’ll always be some gin to wash them down with (champagne also works well). The Ministry of Macaroons is open for business.