Boyzone-aroons, or An Ode to the Irish

So first things first, I must grovel.


I have not posted on this blog since January. To my great shame there is even a half-written entry about white chocolate and raspberry macaroons yet to be posted from January. I'd like to say my excuses* are valid, but nevertheless I am hugely and unequivocally ashamed, and even more so that my partner in crime has been left to shoulder the burden.


And so, my latest batch is an ode to my fair companion and her shining race, The Irish.


It is also an ode to these men:

As you may or may not know, I have been in love with Ronan Keating since I was 7. It was at about this age that I cut out a picture of his face from a teen magazine, which I subsequently kept it in a frame by my bed for at least 3 years. My 11th birthday featured heavily a Boyzone birthday cake, and he has kept his special place in my heart even through recent Dancer-gate.


So this weekend my darling sister and I did something we've been waiting 15 years for - we finally went to see them live in concert. 


Albeit one member short (cue weeping), they did not disappoint. In fact, for their encore they appeared in the middle of the crowd wearing this:

Yes. Those are green velvet suits.

The greatest moment of the whole night (apart from about 30 seconds in, where Emma and I turned to each other in realisation that we were in the presence of greatness, as well as the incredulity of the two older ladies sat next to my sister that we had never been to see them before, probably because our reactions were classic 'crazy fan'), was when they sat on bar stools and just talked like they were down the local and it made me love them collectively more than ever.


So it seems I have been surrounded by inspirational Irish people this weekend,** and in honour of this (and in keeping with my mother's still live-and-kicking food-colouring ban), I chose to make suitably Irish (and brown) flavoured macaroons.


Boyzone-aroons (Irish Coffee)


It seems my friend over the water has been suffering under the Gaddafi-esque regime of her recipes, and in my humble opinion it is entirely the fault, as with most things, of the French. I have a theory that, in a bid to retain world domination in the patisserie stakes, they have contaminated all macaroon recipes to make the creation of a reasonable macaroon nigh on impossible.


For my Irish macaroons, I used my faithful Italian recipe and, despite creating too much syrup by being over-generous with my coffee and therefore creating a sloppy mix (and some sticky bottoms as a result), the biscuits didn't come out too shabby.

Non-too shabby macaroons alongside the biggest bowl of coffee icing ever made.

For the filling, I made a batch of Irish coffee icing, also rather runny because, again, I overdid it on the coffee (I think because the coffee-addict in me loathes the idea of pouring the remnants down the drain). And when I say 'Irish', I mean Irish. The icing I made for this batch was more whiskey than coffee, it seems, but boy is that kick fun! In fact, as an alcohol 'lite' flavour, these bode rather well for the future of the alcoholic macaroon.


All I can say is that I hope the Irish people approve of my tribute. 

The finished product.

* Including a trip to New York City (for the galleries) and New Haven (for Helen) as well as, wait for it, A JOB. Yes, that is correct, I am now a working girl, courtesy of The National Trust. However, it seems that working life does not good bloggers make.


**Quite literally. In a moment of strange yet satisfying circularity, my Boyzone programme is currently propped up on my bedside table and Mr. Keating appears to be looking at me in a particularly appealing sidelong manner. And they called it puppy love...