I received a nice surprise in the mail yesterday: a package from Columbus, Ohio, that included a pen and pretty decent notepad, a magnet (woo!), some postcards of the city skyline (double woo!), and a box of macarons. I had never tried proper macarons. I've made them myself once--to disastrous results. Instead I've settled for admiring their beauty--these cookies are so pretty. They're like flowers, only edible (so better). But let me give you an anology for what I now know about macarons: Macarons are that girl. She's nice, petit, with straight blond hair who wears modest, floral printed clothes. You want to be friends with her because she seems so nice. But then you get to know her and you realize she is nice. Incredibly nice. So nice, you want to punch her in the face for always being nice. When bad things happen, the nice girl always looks on the bright side, she never loses her cool, never says something she shouldn't. There is nothing, and I mean nothing, worse than a nice girl. They only serve to make everyone else look bad, but really they're just boring and pretty and sweet. Gag me!
Well macarons are the nice girl of desserts. They look so pretty you want to eat them. The first bite is good. The frosting is all fluff and cream and squirts out the side, the outside crunches under your bite. Then you notice the soft inside is pure sugar. You swallow and take another bite, and then you want to throw up because this cookie, this beautiful, creamy-crunchy French cookie is so sweet it's awful. It's killing you with kindness.