This is a re-post of the original I posted on Bravetart’s blog (wonderful, please visit her!), and the post that made me decide to try blogging. Since then my dad and step mom got married, I have made some successful Macarons, and my three year old has also started to help with the baking. But that’s all stories for another day. Hope you enjoy!

My love-hate relationship with macarons started after my dad and soon-to-be stepmom returned from a trip to Spain, Italy and France, with a perfect little box of macarons.

There they sat: little puffs of colour, looking foreign yet inviting, intimidating yet delicious. They had saved me a pink one; raspberry flavour with a sweet, jam-like filling and a tangy aftertaste.

This delicacy was something completely new to me. In South Africa your chances of walking into a bakery and seeing a batch of macarons on display are extremely small. Here you barely even get almond flour or vanilla pods. We have a lot of little bakeries called “Tuis Nywerhede”. But in these you will find your typical South African baked goods: koeksisters, hertzoggies, lemingtons, some cakes, some cookies, some cupcakes, and always melktert. Never macarons. And while there is nothing wrong with any of these treats, it gets kind of dull after 22 years.

I never knew I liked baking until i tried it. Now I’m completely, irrevocably and utterly in love with it. And of course, like all arrogant first-time home cooks whose first attempt at a Devil’s Food Cake didn’t flop and who can manage a decent Lemon Meringue, I decided that all these traditional ‘easy’ recipes that everyone over here can make isn’t for me. Why make koeksisters when you can make pasteis de nata? Who would want to bake melktert when you can bake a delicious Gateaux St Honore?

Oh, things were a lot of fun at first. Each new thing I tried came out very good, if not perfect. So The Ego grew and grew and became an all comsuming monster: “Anything you can bake, I can bake better!” I’d see a new recipe on some lifestyle show on TV and The Ego would whisper slyly into my ear: “You can do that. You know you can. Maybe even better.” Most of the time I could. My first attempt at home made marshmallows even turned out perfect, way better than anyone expected. After that came all the other sweet treats. Butterscotch, Turkish Delight, Fudge, I was at the top of the world in my little culinary empire. Queen of the Kitchen.

And then my dad returned with those tiny little bits of melt-in-your-mouth heaven. At first the thought of baking them myself didn’t occur to me. But then I saw a bag of almond flour in a local health shop and I though to myself, “Why not?” At home I jumped on Google and typed in ‘recipes containing almond flour’. The search results shouted macarons, and my tastebuds sang beautiful little angelchoirs in anticipation.

The first recipe I tried was a delicious chocolate macaron. But arrogant and hasty, I didn’t do half the things I should have. The result was a baking pan full of darkness. No form in it, they didnt even slightly stay in circles, it looked like I tried to make brownies. Tasted like brownies as well, quite delicious. But definitely an enormous macaron failure.

The Ego suddenly whimpered. No more boasting, “Oh that’s easy!” or any clapping myself on the shoulder. I treaded light footed around all further macaron recipes I found. I’d enter my kitchen kingdom, whip out a macaron recipe, start to get all the ingredients out, and then The Ego and The Guts would remember the previous attempt. Together we’d sneak back out of the kitchen like embarassed fools.

The next time I had the guts to try macarons again was two years later. This time I came prepared. Armed with a better electric mixer, better pans and ingredients, and more knowledge on meringues and macaronage, I tried again. And this time, I actually had some success. Out of the oven came delicious little shiny shells, but getting them off the pan…that was an entirely different story. Every single one of them stuck to the pan. They wouldn’t budge. No matter how hard I tried, no matter what technique I used, they just would not come off. So into the dustbin went sheet upon sheet of cracked, stuck little shells, garnished with a few tears, The Ego, and The Guts.

6 months later, and I decided to try again. I was in charge of planning and organizing my step-mom’s bridal shower. For the first time since the last failure, The Ego showed up to the party. This time he didn’t try to convince me that I can make perfect macarons, no. This time he whispered other sly, evil little plans in my ear. “Your in-laws are coming as well. They can all bake. If you don’t bake something utterly delicious and foreign, you’ll always be at the bottom of the food chain.”

So instead of following the same path everyone else did when hosting a large party and buying all my food from tuis nywerhede and restaurants, I decided, no. I’ll do the cooking and baking myself. For two days straight I was baking away like crazy. My stepmom’s own mother (The Grandma) helped me with the food, and I baked. The party was going to be at this same mother’s house, and since she had two ovens (She has a guest house), we decided it was better to do everything there. Out of our assembly line came piece after piece of delicious baked treats. Irish coffee chocolate cake, pasteis de nata, fruit millefeuille, pavlova, lemon granadilla meringue. I even made sugared roses to decorate the cakes and plates. Everything was beautiful.

Our last item that we decided to make was at this stage, my worst fear. Macarons. Even more so, considering The Grandma had already made quite a few successful batches on her own. And she is a perfectionist in the kitchen. She couldn’t bake cupcakes to save her life, but she could make macarons. Once again The Ego and The Guts fled the kitchen and left me standing alone with The Fear, The Intimidation, and The Grandma.

She meticulously weighed every ingredient to the last gram while I stood by and trembled everytime she asked me to do something. I was afraid my bad macaron mojo would spoil these ones as well, and I could not afford to have these spoiled.

She basically did everything. All I had to do was decide if they were pink enough, tasted enough of rosewater, and pipe them. Then I had to time them to the second while they rested. She’s one of those people who believe in MacaronMagic. If you don’t do it EXACTLY in a certain way, they WILL fail. The Fear trembled and The Intimidation grew and The Grandma chasticed me everytime it would look like I was going to do something ‘wrong’.

Into the oven the rested shells went. and to MY absolute delight, out came perfect little shells that actually came off the sheet. But The Grandma wasn’t satisfied. They had a foot. Her idea of perfect macarons don’t have a foot. They weren’t even enough. They weren’t all the same size. And everything that went ‘wrong’ was blamed on my piping and me not letting them stand long enough (30minutes, not 20 minutes). It seemed to her that my bad MacaMojo had followed me, and she then decided that “next time, I’ll do it”.

So now here I sit, looking for something to bake. My family is coming to stay for the weekend and I want to bake something delicious for them. My tastebuds scream for macarons, but The Guts haven’t yet returned from their holiday with The Ego. In their place The Fear is still here to keep me company. And The Fear is a sad little pessimist, always whispering, “What if your oven isn’t accurate with its temperatures? What if they stick to the baking sheet again? What if everybody thinks you should just stick to painting and leave the baking to the people who know what they are doing???” The Fear is a mean little companion.

I will try macarons again. Not today, probably not again in this year. But one day, I WILL conquer The Fear and master The Macaron. But until that day, I’m perfectly happy to drool over gorgeous macaron pictures and dream of eating them again, one day.