Starting this blog in the New Year with a post from before Christmas is not really ideal, but is tellingly reflective of my approach to time commitments. Me and Douglas Adams – we’re like that, see?
Anyway, the first macaroons to grace this blog (and they had grace oozing out of them like weeping pustules) were Christmas-flavoured. What does Christmas-flavoured mean exactly? Did they taste like a Norwegian spruce? Did they prickle like holly? Did they smell like Christmas morning? Not unless you spent Christmas morning inside a Diptyque candle… Use of the term ‘Christmas’ to describe flavour usually means cinnamon, and disgusting fake cinnamon at that. I have only to mention the travesty to the tastebuds that is the Starbuck’s Gingerbread latte (where’s the ginger, people? THIS IS CINNAMON. Or, as I like to call it, cinnaminging) to jog your gag reflex. Sorry about that.
But no, I rebel. I don’t actually have that much against cinnamon, in small doses at least, but my sister, really really loathes it with every fibre of her being. And since she was co-hosting the party I made these macaroons for, I decided to humour her. Besides, I wanted to take the idea of a spiced macaroon, but alter it slightly. So I decided to make Nutmeg macaroons. I adore nutmeg with the same degree of passion that I loathe cinnamon. That fragrant, custardy, warming fragrance (more than taste really): I wanted to make a macaroon that tasted like a custard tart.
 |
| Pre-oven macaroons. Having a rest. |
I took the basic macaroon recipe but started with trepidation – in the macaroon experiment in the summer, I mentioned that Farf’s macaroons worked out much better than mine, which tasted fine, but lacked the smooth, crisp carapace (not dissimilar to a smartie, really) that characterises the perfect macaroon. BUT GUESS WHAT PEOPLE, I’VE DISCOVERED THE SECRET: time. In the summer, I was freaking out and trying to get my macaroons into the oven as quickly as possible, as you’re supposed to do with most egg white-based confectionary. But according to Pierre Hermé (God of Macaroons) and also the BBC food website (source of solace in times of trouble), macaroons need a little breathing space before they meet the inferno. Hermé reckons on 15 minutes, but the Beeb suggest an hour. I reckon on somewhere in between – 40 minutes is ideal, allowing the macaroons time to firm up. Prior to this, I made a plain white macaroon mix, but with plenty of grated nutmeg (probably half a… what do you call a single unit of nutmeg? A clove?). I wasn’t sure about the colour, so ill-advisedly tried adding half a teaspoon of cocoa powder to boost the shade, which merely ended in giving a spooky grey tinge to the mix (luckily this disappeared on baking). In the end I figured I was happy with the buff colour flecked with darker shavings of nutmeg. So the macaroons rested, and I had a nap, and then they went into the oven for 15 minutes.
******
They emerged. They were beautiful. The colour of oyster satin, with shiny smooth shells, and the most heavenly smell you’ve ever smelled. I nearly cried with pride (I have had more macaroon disasters than you can shake a whisk at) as I eased them off the baking paper (that’s right – eased. Not tore, pulled, or crowbarred. Eased). I let them cool and set to making the filling. We’ll have to discuss macaroon fillings at some point, but generally I favour a buttercream bulked out with ground almonds. I was adding nutmeg to this and getting sister no. 2 to taste it, when she had a brain wave. Ginger. These macaroons were crying out for ginger. But not just any ginger. Little nuggets of crystallised ginger mixed into the buttercream. And so I chopped up the crystallised ginger (not very much- about two tablespoons for 20 macaroons) and stirred it in, and oh my. The delicacy of the nutmeg perfume was countered by little zings of chewy sweet spicy ginger. It was like listening to a duet. I listened to the happy little macaroons as I sandwiched them together, and made a little tower of them on a plate. They were the stars of the party. Nutmeg and ginger macaroons. Perfection.
 |
| Happiness. |
Afterword: there’s a more unhappy sequel to this story. I made the first batch on the 23rd December, then tried to follow up by making them again on Christmas Day for a café gourmand (of which there will most certainly be more later). Only left them to rest for 20 minutes pre-oven. MISTAKE. Again, the taste was fine, but that disappointing moussey texture made my heart weep. Pride definitely goes before a fall. And Pierre Hermé, you are so not a god of macaroons. 15 minutes my eye.
No comments:
Post a Comment