French macarons. Instantly recognizable, coveted. A pastry to instill child like glee in the hearts of all.
If the sight of those perfectly round little sandwiched pastel cookies does not evoke some sort of emotion, specifically respect, in you then you, yes you dear reader, have absolutely no soul.
These deceiving angelic and simple looking cookies are probably Satan’s tea cakes of choice. All those french pastry chefs regardless of Michelin star status are hand-picked by Satan for his person entourage.
Why I make such a large deal of them you may ask yourself. Well in truth perhaps I exaggerate a tad, but still.
French macarons are notorious in the pastry world.
The batter is temperamental on an exceptionally good day, piping a load of tears, and not to mention don’t even bother showing up if they aren’t perfectly round and smooth enough to make a baby’s butt look like sand paper.
Again perhaps I exaggerate.
But despite my dramatic air the parameters of a good macaron are truly satanic.
This is why my head nearly spun round, detached itself, and did a jig when I tried to bake these infamous cookies for the first time this weekend.
The reason I almost exorcised my self is because the first batch I have ever made turned out looking like this:
Bragging aside it was surprising to say the least. After hearing horror stories from my baking partners past attempt, I was prepared for blood sweat and tears. Too say the least I’m frickin proud of me and my dear baking buddy.
The world of baking is endless and the grandma just got adventurous.