Last post: lamenting my inability to lose weight. This post: espousing on the agony and ecstacy that is the macaron. A cookie — and so much more.

I was largely uninitiated in the macaron mystique until my niece became a macaronaholic before Christmas, making dozens and dozens and dozens and DOZENS in an attempt to achieve perfection. Based on the ones she shared with us at Christmas — a glorious assortment of lemon, lime, cherry, and vanilla, each a picture-perfect wonder — she achieved it.

Before that, I had read a bit about the surge in popularity of these pretty little sandwich cookies, but I didn’t understand. I was confusing them with macaroons — those dense, chewy, coconut cookies. Macarons (a French creation) are completely different. Not coconut — almondy, meringuey, chewy — yet light. Yet luscious, usually filled with something wonderful like buttercream frosting. Hard to describe. Easy to love. Gluten-free, so there’s that too.

Also, a little hard to Google, because if you try to search for “French macarons,” Google helpfully switches it to “French macaroons” — at least until it learns better.

Anyway, once I knew about my niece’s obsession, I started doing a little research online and found that macarons have been all the rage for quite some time. Bloggers galore have posted about their attempts, and pastry chefs everywhere have shared their tricks. Me, I just fell in love with the taste and have been wanting to try my hand, despite reading how difficult they are and how any of a dozen little foibles (too much humidity, over-mixing, under-mixing, mixing too fast, mixing too slow, cold eggs, warm eggs, old eggs, new eggs, on and on) can thwart even experienced bakers.

Clearly this macaron obsession is a powerful thing.

For my first attempt, I relied on the method and tips at BraveTart.com — truly a great resource. Howevah, and it’s a big howevah, I wasn’t ready to buy all the tools recommended…e.g, a food scale ($25 on Amazon) to weigh the ingredents rather than relying on the amateur’s way (measuring cups), or a pastry bag and tips for piping out the cookie batter (reverently called “the macaronage”). So, I improvised.

I’m not sure why we have this postal scale that used to be at Mike’s office, but we do. So I used it. I have no idea if it’s accurate, but I figured if I used it to weigh out all the ingredients, at least proportionally everything would be in sync with the recipe.

Also, a pastry bag and tips is not a big investment, but again, I already had this.

Almond flour is a key ingredient, and while I’ve  tried twice now to buy ready-made (Bob’s Red Mill), Wal-Mart has been totally out for well over a week (way to manage inventory, world’s largest retailer). So I made my own by grinding almonds in my food processor — a totally normal thing that many bakers do. Blanched almonds (without any of the brown skin) yield the prettiest result, but blanched, slivered almonds cost a little more than the unblanched, sliced, so I opted for the sliced.

Also, all the recipes call for using a stand mixer with a whip attachment to beat the egg whites into meringue. I just have regular beaters on my mixer, and while I’ve made meringue with no problem, I opted to use my immersion (hand) blender that has a whip instead. It took virtually the same amount of time the recipe called for (like 9 minutes of beating — quite a lot), so I don’t think that was an issue.

Mixing the almond flour-powdered sugar mixture with the meringue to create the macaronage is a crucial step. I think I did OK — at least I think it approximated the description in BraveTart’s recipe. Loading this into my handy Pampered Chef decorator was a bitch — I’ll be springing for a pastry bag. And while it wasn’t easy to pipe out the little rounds of batter, I was happy the batter seemed to be the right consistency and spread and flatten as it was supposed to.

After following BraveTart’s suggestions for whacking the cookie trays on the counter a few times to get any air bubbles out, I was hopeful when I finally got them in the oven. My oven can be set to convection or regular — I chose regular after reading that the fan on the convection can cause the macarons to crack.

I thought I saw the start of “feet” — key to a great macaron. Feet is the name given to a thin layer of airy, sponge-looking cookie that the smooth top rests on. (See the beautiful feet on BraveTart’s photos).

But, alas, feet were not forthcoming.

That thin, airy layer you can see on a few of them should be at least double that size. No cracked ones on this tray, at least. The other tray, below it in the oven, didn’t fare so well. Clearly a product of some oven discrepancy — I’ll have to experiment with that on future batches. I tried the convection setting on the second batch of trays, but cracking was more of a problem. BraveTart recommends adjusting the oven racks to avoid them getting blown on by the fan, so maybe I’ll try that, too. The idea of a convection oven is supposed to be super-even baking, so it seems like it should be ideal for macarons. But so far, not so much.

Also, I experimented with using my silicone baking sheet liners on the first batch and parchment paper on the second. Parchment worked better with less sticking.

In the end, my first-ever macarons turned out flatter than they should have been, and many had cracks. Many were hollow underneath — which I think means they were underbaked. I didn’t achieve perfect, same-size circles — some were downright oval. They were a little tan on top, instead of soft, creamy ecru all over. They had flecks from the almond skin.

So, by now you might be thinking I threw the whole, pitiful batch away.

But here’s the beauty part: Macarons are scrumptious even without feet. Even with cracks and speckles and a suntan. Even without perfectly matched tops and bottoms.

Even more beauty: They get better over time! Store them in the fridge (for up to a week) and they’ll mature into even greater lusciousness.

I soldiered on.

Instead of the classic buttercream filling usually called for, I used a different chocolate frosting recipe from the can of cocoa — one that didn’t require a mixer. Seriously, considering the state of my kitchen, and that I’d been at this for almost two hours and it was now dinnertime, I wasn’t willing to dirty another appliance. (And this shot was after I put the food processor away.)

Soooo, after all that, with my first macaron effort — and a few of the tasty results — happily under my belt, I’m still hooked. I’ll try again, tweak a few things, and strive for prettier, more classic cookies. I’ll try other flavors and colors. I’ll go for the real buttercream and experiment with some other fillings, too. But I’m sure not complaining…except maybe about those 5 lbs. I can’t seem to lose.

Try again. Fail again. Fail better.
~ Samuel Beckett 

In my experience, nothing I do will make weight “fall off,” short of lopping off an arm or leg with a chainsaw.Not that I’ve tried that, but I’m pretty sure it would work.

However, no amount of diet modification, calorie counting, dread-inducing exercise, mind-over-matter attitude, spiritual awakening or ANYTHING I’ve ever done has resulted in weight “just falling off.”

Maybe if I was significantly overweight to begin with, this shedding would happen. But losing 5 (or maybe 10) pounds has been next to impossible for as long as I’ve needed to.

Yes, 20+ years ago, I followed a strict low-fat diet for health reasons, and I was pretty darn skinny. But I was pretty thin when I started, so that hardly counts.The diet didn’t make me feel any different, so I stopped.

Yes, I did a pretty strict diet for a few months a couple years ago and lost weight. It made me look old (ummm, I didn’t really need to lose weight in my face and neck, thank you), and it was a drag since it was virtually impossible to find anything to eat at restaurants — at least the restaurants we frequent.

Yes, every Lent I give up something — most often sweets — and I do lose a few pounds. Maybe 2 or 3 over the course of 6 weeks. It comes right back on when the sugar-fast is over. Like, say, at Easter brunch with my in-laws.

Yes, I go on exercise kicks. Exercise makes me ravenous, so I eat more. No weight loss through exercise. Ever.

Yes, I often try to eat four 400-calorie meals a day. A 400-calorie meal usually seems like a snack.I think I just had one — light whole grain flatbread tortilla wrapped around a few tablespoons each of hummus and cottage cheese and a handful of spring mix with a cutie orange on the side. I’m busy now thinking about what else I can eat. Preferably something that starts with potato and ends with chips — even though I know we don’t have any because I ate them all a couple days ago.

I often think I could be REALLY happy just eating 1600 calories a day of junk. Potato chips mostly, with some chocolate occasionally to balance out the salt with sugar. Maybe some nachos once in a while.

I also love healthy food — brown rice, tofu, roasted veggies. I could live on that, too. But Mike can’t, so I’d have to make 2 different meals all the time, and it’s enough of a drag just making one. But, yes, I was thinner when I lived alone. And no, that weight-loss tactic is not on the table!

So that leaves me where I am. Needing (OK, wanting) to lose 5-8 lbs. Trying to watch what I eat (I know it’s an issue of quantity rather than quality, most of the time). Trying to force myself to exercise a few times a week. Feeling frustrating that short of following a super restrictive diet that makes me unhappy, those skinny jeans will likely stay buried in my drawer forevermore.

And that just sucks.

She looked as if she had been poured into
her clothes and had forgotten to say “when.”
~ P.G. Wodehouse

I dread the annual shred, which takes several days to make sure I don’t blow up my shredder and never fails to leave little bits of paper all over everything, no matter how careful I am.

Like sands through the hourglass (and paper through the shredder), so are the days of our lives.

Anyone else remember that? I grew up watching soaps — some of my earliest memories are of having to take an afternoon nap (until I was 6 and in first grade!), during which time I was not allowed up until 3:30 or something. I used to crouch at the top of the stairs and listen for one of the soaps to come on (could have been Days of Our Lives, could have been Another World), so I knew it was OK for me to get up. Of course, I’m sure the daily nap “for my own good” was really so my poor mom could lie down and rest for a bit between doing the wash (worsh), cleaning, cooking, etc., etc. for our family of nine.

It’s interesting, though, as I shred old check stubs and such, to see what I was working on “back then.” In 2004, I was working with a company who managed its contractors through an outside firm, so I have many stubs from an intermediary I had forgotten all about and can’t even recall which client the work was for. (Which is a little scary, since 8 years is not that long ago.) And I was living in a different house and Mike and I were only dating. OK — so now it does feel like a long time ago.

I’m also having the usual post-holiday, “Oh my God I’ve got to get rid of some of this crap!” anxiety and scanning the house for things I can toss or donate. While I see plenty of things, most are not mine to dispose of (ahem) so will have to stay. But it bothers me to know that we could empty this house of half its contents and never miss them! Attic stuff, basement stuff, closet stuff, drawer stuff — so much stuff. It’s suffocating. [Make that "stuffocating" -- brilliant, Mel!]

But now I’m merely procrastinating. It’s time to get back to the shredding, de-Christmasing, thinking about exercising, halfhearted organizing, and general life contemplation that are as much a part of January as playoff season. Oh. Wait. That didn’t work out so well either.

You have succeeded in life when all you really want
is only what you really need.
~ Vernon Howard

It didn’t dawn on me until two days later that I didn’t seem to have the cocoa-roasted almonds I’d bought at Sam’s Club the other day to give to my neighbors for Christmas. I searched my house. I searched the trunk and back seat. I checked my receipt to verify I had, indeed, purchased them as I thought. Yep, there was the $9.98 charge. But no almonds anywhere.

Nuts.

I took a long shot and decided to go back to the store and see if by chance someone had found my almonds and turned them in.

“I know this is a long shot,” I said to the woman at the Service Desk at Sam’s. “But did anyone…?”

She grabbed a binder from under the counter and started flipping through it. Evidently, people must lose or leave stuff behind often enough that they have to track it.

She was starting to shake her head no, when she suddenly perked up and said, “Were those Emerald almonds?”

“Yes!” I said.

“Go get another one,” she said. “Someone turned them in.”

No way, really?

Some people are such good souls. Far more than those who are, as my friend aptly put it while commenting on my last post, “jagoffs.”

Sure does wonders for one’s heart health — far beyond what the almond ads promise.

How far that little candle throws his beams!
So shines a good deed in a naughty world.
~ William Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice

December 20, 2011

Tastings Import Company
910 W. Van Buren Street, Suite 5000
Chicago, IL 60607-3557

Dear Sirs:

Please find enclosed a copy of the $5 rebate check for Funky Llama wine that you sent to me on 12/2/2011 and that I then cashed. Big mistake. Not only was the check returned by the bank, which charged my account the $5, it also charged me $12 for a returned check.

I tried to contact your company at 312-226-9438, only to find a recording that told me to call another number (847-733-7173) that is now disconnected.

I now have little hope of recouping my $17, but if an actual person receives this letter, why in God’s name did you even send the $5 check at all, months after I submitted the rebate information? Just like to mess with people during the holidays, do you?

I hope I am the only person dumb enough to painstakingly remove and send in a half-dozen wine labels to get a lousy $5 rebate that ended up costing me much more. On the other hand, how ironic, as I will need to drink a bottle or two of wine to relieve the absurdity of this situation.

Thanks a million — or at least $17.

Sincerely,

I made three calls to the bank trying to understand what had happened. It was made more puzzling by the fact that although I cashed the check, the bank arbitrarily charged my mother’s checking account, which I have my name on and handle for her, the $5 and $12 fees. (Ummmm, sorry Mom?) Actually, the $12 fee took a few days to appear, and the bank then earned my sincere gratitude for waiving the fee after I called for the third time and asked if there was anything they could do, under the circumstances. So, thank you for that, PNC Bank! I do appreciate it!

As for the rest of it…seriously. Have you had anything this absurd happen to you? Coincidentally, I have a $3 rebate check in my purse for something totally different that I am now afraid to cash. So much for pinching pennies. But I do think I’m going to go drink a glass of wine — just not Funky Llama.

If you wish to keep your affairs secret, drink no wine.
~ Author unknown

No, I’m not. I just haven’t had anything to write about lately. Not that that’s always stopped me in the past, but even I don’t care enough to write about my life lately, let alone feel compelled to bore anyone else with it.

For example:

• Joining the 21st century: I’m writing this on my new laptop — my latop, not one I share with Mike, which has been the case for the past 5 years. I feel a bit guilty because the old one still works fine, but I got tired of sharing it. So now we each have one to use…except…Mike got a new toy too — a tablet. He’s having fun using it, so now the old, perfectly good laptop is not being used. I feel wasteful (but I love my zippy new laptop). I also joined Facebook a short while back — I know, not exactly an early adopter. It’s been fun to reconnect with old grade school and high school folks. This whole “friend” (but not really) thing took me a while to get used to, but I think I’ve got the idea now.
• Home life: Our evenings (which begin earlier and earlier because it’s dark at 4:30) consist of Mike on one end of the couch with his tablet and me on the other end with my laptop (dual recliners, don’t you know — could we be any more suburban?) with a cat or two curled up with me or on me. Somewhere between 9:00 and 11:00, I get at least an hour of sleep in before bedtime.
• Christmas: Shopping done, decorating done, cookies done…nothing exciting there. Looking forward to seeing my family next week, as always.
• House projects: Mike’s making good progress on the sunroom (I think we’re moving into year 3, but I’ve lost track). Someday I’ll have awesome pictures to post…but not yet.
• Work: I’ve been busy this year, and I’m grateful that despite the still down economy, I did OK and have a nice project load to carry me into 2012. Truly thankful for this.

Are you bored yet? Told you. I’m having trouble thinking of even boring things to write about…which, when you think about is, is quite a luxury. Life may not be exciting lately, but it’s perfectly fine…and so am I.

But enough about me. What’s new with you?

In three words I can sum up everything
I’ve learned about life. It goes on.
~Robert Frost 

In my world, you know it’s a special meal when there’s actually dessert. We don’t have it very often, especially dessert that’s prepared specifically for a meal, rather than just a cookie or something you happen to have in the house. (And, by the way, fruit is not a dessert.)

So what’s the debate? When the dessert happens.

In my family, we eat dessert well after the meal is finished — at least an hour after and sometimes 2 or 3 hours later, with coffee, of course. After napping, taking a walk, playing cards or a game. That way, we’re free to eat way too much for dinner before starting all over again with dessert.

In Mike’s family, dessert happens immediately. You eat your last bit of mashed potatoes, and then there’s cake, pie, ice cream — whatever — to contend with. More of a sigh than a yum. (Oh, and they’re not coffee people, so there’s that, too…)

To me, it’s just plain wrong. To Mike and my niece’s husband, waiting for dessert is just wrong.

I can see the cons of “our” way — frequently it seems you just got the dishes and leftovers all dealt with and put away and now it’s time to trot out more dishes, silverware, cups and make another mess with dessert. But the cons with the other way is that you don’t really even want dessert after you just ate a big meal. Hard to really savor it.

So, what’s your way?

This Thanksgiving, we’ll be waiting for apple-berry pie with cheddar crust and/or pumpkin pie at my sister’s house, much to Mike’s and my nephew’s chagrin. I hope your desserts are just as wonderful — whenever you eat them.

Pie…it fills the cracks of the heart. Go away, pain.
~ Kevin James (Mall Cop)

Now I just say, “The______ needs ________.”

The oil needs changed; this picture needs hung; the cupboard door needs fixed (yes, I say that bit of Pittsburghese, dropping the “to be”); my tires need air; the screw came out of my glasses; the faucet is leaking.

My handy husband usually takes it from there.

I still remember the first time I experienced this luxury. We were newly dating. I needed new wiper blades on my car. He went with me to buy “the right” new blades and installed them. I was hooked, thanking him and telling him no one had ever taken care of me like that. He said, “I’ll take care of you.” And he has. He’s a fixer — not just for me, but for his parents, friends, at work, you name it.

Just recently, though, I’ve come to the realization that it’s not just that he wants to take care of me. Or that he’s good at fixing things. It’s more that he doesn’t trust me (anyone) to do it myself (themselves). That’s why any fix-it task more complicated than changing a lightbulb at our house is typically met with a swift, “I’ll do it.”

A week or so ago, I threw caution to the winds and “installed” my new vanity license plate he got me for my birthday. (Of course, we first had to buy a clear protective cover. And I had to buy new screws since the old ones are always rusty, and there were only 2 instead of 4.) Full disclosure: It was a bit of a pain and took me longer than it should have. But I did it, and really, no one will ever see the scratches I put in the paint under the plate.

He, of course, commented in surprise, “You put that on yourself?” (Seriously, 4 screws. I’m a genius.)

A day or so later, I thought nothing of it when I saw him head outside with a screwdriver in hand. Then I glanced out the living room window and saw him just standing up after bending over the back of my car. Wouldn’t ya know, he had obviously checked my work and likely “adjusted” the screws, never saying a word to me, of course. (Much like Marie “corrects” Deborah’s mashed potatoes on Everybody Loves Raymond.)

I laughed. It’s so him.

A few days later, I had the inspiration that I didn’t need to buy a new, armless desk chair to replace my current chair, which kept getting stuck under the keyboard tray on my desk — I could just take the arms off. Much to Mike’s alarm, I started to do it myself. Of course, after much insistence that “I can do it; I’m not an idiot.” I discovered that instead of taking a normal flat or Phillips screw or typical nuts & bolts, it takes a hex-head — one thing I didn’t have in “my” tool bucket (which he has raided regularly over the last 8 years, by the way, because I have good stuff, and I always put things away.) So, he ended up doing that job for me, too.

I’m not complaining, exactly. It’s just that I’m pretty much at the point where I’m afraid to do anything because I’ll do it “wrong” and he’ll have to “fix it.” I’ve regressed from “I am woman, hear me roar.” to “Quick! My smelling salts!” in a frighteningly short time.

Come to think of it, though, I may have unwittingly stumbled on what I and women everywhere have often suspected is the quintessential male avoidance strategy… the Clueless Maneuver. As in, ask them to fold the laundry and you get backwards, inside-out clothes. Load the dishwasher? 2 cracked plates and a newly handle-less cup. Help clean? Ummmm, ever thought of running the sweeper AFTER you dust, not before? (DUH!)

I noticed this morning that the nightlight in the hall is messed up — the timer hasn’t been adjusted to the time change, and I nearly killed myself in the dark at 5:00 a.m. this morning stumbling downstairs to feed the pesky cats.

It would take about 30 seconds to adjust the timer. But in the interests of marital harmony (and cluelessness), I think I’ll just just say, “The timer needs reset.” and leave it at that.

Learn to…be what you are, and learn to resign
with a good grace all that you are not.
~ Henri Frederic Amiel

It wasn’t all stress-free, though. We were somewhat haunted by a new obsession — searching for fossilized shark teeth. I had never even heard of such a thing before, but the friends whose son owns the condo we stayed at educated us before our trip. He’s a bona fide (I was so tempted to write bonified, because we’re talking about fossils and all) shark teeth hunting expert, and he showed us the ropes, and the hundreds of teeth in his collection.

Basically, you walk head down for as far as you possibly can, gazing at the billions of tiny pebbles and shells along the beach and in the surf, looking for anything remotely pointy or triangle-shaped and shiny black. Out of the billions of possibilities, maybe 2 million are pointy, triangle-shaped, and shiny black. About a dozen of these will be actual shark teeth. (At least that seems like the right proportion — billions of possibilities; very few real-deals.)

So, you start out reaching for 2 million pointy, triangle-shaped, shiny black things whenever you see one. A million of those possibilities will be instantly washed back into the ocean the second you bend down to pick them up, never to be seen again. The other million possibilities will be nestled amid the billions of other shells and pebbles, safely beyond the surf (at least at low tide). You pick up 279,549 of them as you walk along, only to realize they aren’t actually shark teeth, but bits of shells or pebbles. How can so many things be shiny black, triangle-shaped, and pointy?

Scattered among those millions are the dozen or so that are shark teeth. It’s a classic needle-in-a-haystack pursuit. If you’re lucky, you find maybe 2 or 3. (One of the ways you know it’s a shark tooth is if you can’t break it. They’re hard as a rock, no matter how slender and pointy or how small the fragment.)

It qualifies as an obsession, this shark teeth hunting thing. You see people scanning for them all along the beach — including pro’s who have nets to scoop up and sift through the piles of pebbles and shells that stretch just where the waves break. Instead of a relaxing walk along the beach, you find yourself searching, bending, reaching, sifting, discarding — and maybe sticking a tiny find or two in your pocket and hoping it doesn’t wash away when you get slapped by a wave.

I wonder why it’s such a thing — why I and many others can’t stop the incessant searching — for shark teeth, sea glass, sand dollars, star fish (“sea stars” as I learned at the aquarium), shells — whatever “treasures” the sea might offer up. Is it the thrill of the hunt? The search for something free? something beautiful? something unique? Is it to feel connected to creatures so different from ourselves? Or just the peace — albeit stressful peace — that comes from focusing your eyes and mind on one thing, just one thing, for as long as you can stand it.

Our week-long search yielded 70 or so treasures — most bits and pieces rather than perfectly formed teeth. By contrast, our friend has found well over 200 in one week. His wife calls it his “shark teeth OCD.” I’m sure if we had the opportunity, Mike and I would be out there daily, sloshing along in the surf, head down, scanning.

Just thinking about it has me jonesin’ for it.

Powerful stuff, these obsessions.

Cure for an obsession: Get another one.
~ Mason Cooley

He’s a perfect bird for the ’Burgh, as is this beauty. I thought she was getting ready to spell out “SOME TEAM” before the Steelers opener — or, as a Facebook friend suggested, “WIN.”  But given how that game turned out, she was probably spelling “WHAT THE…?”

I’m just glad they dropped by.

The ornaments of your house will be the guests who frequent it.
~ Author unknown