Macaron Obsessions

Obsessions are bad. Obsessions are time consuming. Obsessions lead to multiple batches of macarons in search of the perfect batch.

Back when I had my macaron craze, I at least had a craze. I had something that motivated me, something that compelled me to do things until the wee hours of the morning. I’d get up, change, and start measuring out the ingredients. I’d mix and measure and watch, all the time making sure things didn’t look like the last batch. Egg whites beaten until stiff peaks formed, sugar and water boiled until they were syrupy, tant-pour-tant mixed and ground to a fine consistency without any large chunks.

All done for my quest to make the perfect macarons.

Batch after batch, I’d make it, trying out new combinations, different orders, different amounts; all while changing the flavor and in hopes that this batch would be better than the previous one. Too wet, too flat, too soft, too sweet, too sticky. Broken, dented, separated, over-beaten, under-beaten, ugly. Ugly, ugly, ugly. Batch after batch, something was always wrong. From almost perfect to completely disastrous, I still couldn’t find my perfect batch. So another batch would be necessary. And then another. And another.

In hindsight, Batch #1 set the bar too high for the rest of the batches. By following a recipe I had found online to a T, I managed to create a decent batch of macarons in that first attempt. The shell was nice and sturdy while the inside was still soft and slightly gooey. They came off the parchment paper without any trouble and they had the perfect little “feet” – the essential ruffled fringe that makes a macaron a macaron – on the bottom. Some of the fringed bottoms were crooked (due to under-beating or too high of heat, I’m still not sure), and I hadn’t realized yet that the tips wouldn’t flatten on their own (definitely due to under-beating). No matter the tiny flaws that my first batch had, I had still moderately succeeded in creating the quintessential French macaron.

But, as they say, a miss is as good as a mile.

And I wasn’t going to have any part in “almost perfect” macarons.

And that meant Batch #2, 3, 4, and x, y, and z (Batch x, y, and z were because I lost count as to how many batches I made.). (I never quite understood why when using variables one starts with x. Wouldn’t it have been more logical to start with a? Ponder ponder…)

Batch #2 failed miserably. Over confidence in my abilities to remember amounts caused me to measure amounts incorrectly, thus making my syrup not syrup at all. Turns out eyeballing it doesn’t work if you don’t even have the correct amounts. The outcome: macarons that don’t dry, which in turn doesn’t cook properly, and aren’t salvageable. Not even worth pulling out my camera. Epic fail. Lessons learned: follow recipes! The second attempt is not the time to get cocky and measure via memory.

Batch #3, definitely a step up from Batch #2, but still not even Batch #1 caliber. Non existent feet, too soft a shell, cracks. Lesson learned: Less sugar. Keep trying.

Batch #4 and 5 and 6. Again, too soft, no feet, lumpy. Again. Again. Again. At this point I was ready to give up. Batch after batch were failing and I couldn’t figure out why. I scoured the blogosphere for reasons to why my macarons refused to be macarons. Google, YouTube, Blogspot, someone give me the answers! Each blog said the same thing about the consistency of the batter: fold until it “flows like lava”. WTF. “Flows like lava”?? Batch after batch I chased this elusive “flows like lava” consistency only to have my macarons look like the pictures on blogs labeled “over-beaten” or “under-beaten”. “Temperature too high” or “temperature too low”. If my friends hadn’t gotten diabetes yet with the sugary-sweet macarons I’d be surprised. Were my semi-successes just flukes? Was it just a chance encounter with success? Was that as good as it gets? Should I call it quits? I was already spending quite a lot on ingredients. What was I going to do with all the egg yolks that I wasn’t using? I had already scoured American specialty stores for almond flour (only to realize it was quite a bit cheaper at an Indian market).

Fortunately my parents didn’t mind. If you’re going to do something, they said, do it right. Don’t stop till you get it. And so I continued. Till 3AM I continued. All in search for that perfect batch of macarons.

Then comes x! Success! Well, close to success. A lot closer than ever before in my macaron obsession. Beautiful lift off. Still a bit on the sweet side, but it’s a work in progress. Some of Batch x still had some lumpy tops and some cracks, but it topped Batch #1 so I accepted it and all its failures. They still didn’t look like Pierre Hermé, Ladurée, or any French macaron I’ve seen, but the resemblance was there. So close to perfection I could taste it. Mango macarons with mango and chocolate filling. What a hit with my taste testers! After all the failed attempts, this reinstated my confidence that I was a decent baker. What an ego boost! And just the encouragement I needed to push me back into my obsession. With that semi-success now in my macaron history, I was sure I could make that perfect macaron. That perfect macaron was possible. Those semi-successes weren’t just flukes or lucky shots. There was hope for the perfect macaron.

But success isn’t success until it can be recreated. So, after a bit of a hiatus, Batch y comes into existence. Only I had gotten cocky again and assumed that by now I knew the measurements. Well, you know what they say about assuming. And so Batch y comes to its unsightly end in the macaron graveyard. So sad.

Batch z!   Clearly the recipe I was following wasn’t doing it for me.  Why I didn’t change recipes earlier?  Well because I thought that it was me that was failing at it.  I was tweaking the recipe here and there so it must have been me.  Plus, it was the same recipe I saw in at least three other blogs.  So it must have been good.  Well as it turns out, there are better recipes out there.  And Batch z proves it!  Success in the form of macarons!  Prettier than ever!  Perfect feet this time, evenly distributed throughout the entire batch!  Smooth tops, nice and squishy in the center.  No air pocket inside.  And not diabetes-inducingly sweet!  Horray!

Ah success in the form of the perfect macaron.  How delightful.
 
Well no, not quite success just yet.  Because, like I said, a success isn’t a success unless it can be recreated. 
 
And so perhaps it’s time for my next batch. 


And perhaps obsessions aren't that bad after all.

A new wind

So I've updated my blog.

I'm no longer in France. That experience has come and gone and I loved it completely. Things could have been done differently, others probably shouldn't have been done at all, but overall I'm glad that I did it.

Life, opportunities, chances, they're all there for the taking. Now to go for it.

On Love (The Unbearable Lightness of Being. pg 297-298)

From this jumble of ideas came the sacrilegious thought that Tereza could not shake off: the love that tied her to Karenin was better than the love between her and Tomas. Better, not bigger. Tereza did not wish to fault either Tomas or herself; she did not wish to claim that they could love each other more. Her feeling was rather that, given the nature of the human couple, the love of man and woman is a priori inferior to that which can exist (at least in the best instances) in the love between man and dog, that oddity of human history probably unplanned by the Creator.

It is a completely selfless love: Tereza did not want anything of Karenin; she did not ever ask him to love her back. Nor had she ever asked herself the questions that plague human couples: Does he love me? Does he love anyone more than me? Does he love me more than I love him? Perhaps all the questions we ask of love, to measure, test, probe, and save it, have the additional effect of cutting it short. Perhaps the reason we are unable to love is that we yearn to be loved, that is, we demand something (love) from our partner instead of delivering ourselves up to him demand-free and asking for nothing but his company.

And something else: Tereza accepted Karenin for what he was; she did not try to make him over in her image; she agreed from the outset with his dog’s life, did not wish to deprive him of it, did not envy him his secret intrigues. The reason she trained him was not to transform him (as a husband tries to reform his wife and a wife her husband), but to provide him with the elementary language that enabled them to communicate and live together.

Then too: No one forced her to love Karenin; love for dogs is voluntary. (Tereza was again reminded of her mother, and regretted everything that had happened between them. If her mother had been one of the anonymous women in the village, she might well have found her easygoing coarseness agreeable. Oh, if only her mother had been a stranger! From childhood on, Tereza had been ashamed of the way her mother occupied the features of her face and confiscated her “I”. What made it even worse was the age-old imperative “Love your father and mother!” forced her to agree with that occupation, to call the aggression love! It was not her mother’s fault that Tereza broke with her. Tereza broke with her not because she was the mother she was but because she was a mother.)

If Karenin had been a person instead of a dog, he would surely have long since said to Tereza, “Look, I’m sick and tired of carrying that roll in my mouth every day. Can’t you come up with something different?” And therein lies the whole of man’s plight. Human time does not turn in a circle; it runs ahead in a straight line. That is why man cannot be happy: happiness is the longing for repetition.

Yes, happiness is the longing for repetition, Tereza said to herself.

Château Tour!

Château de Vincennes, Paris
the donjon (keep) of Vincennesat Tours. the Tours Cathedral.
so all gothic cathedrals are generally the same. this one however is missing some key figures. what's missing?Château de Chenonceau, Tours
one of the most visited châteaux of Loire Valley.this hall is above a river. isn't that cool? :)the exteriorthe tour bus sans driver!Clois-lucé, Amboise.
this is where leonardo da vinci lived but not buriedChâteau d'Amboise, Amboise
interesting chateau with many examples of both gothic and renaissance influencenot sure, but another castle along the loire riverChâteau de Chambord, Chambord.
the guy who made this invested so much money on the architecture of it that he ran out of money to fill it apparently. tant pis. but isn't it amazing??Château de Cheverny
the fourth generation of the duke/earl (forgot which) still resides in this castle.
aren't they amazingg?? unfortunately, due to the tour I was on, I didn't get a chance to see the two major châteaux i wanted to see: Villandry and Azay-le-Rideau. bummer bummer..

lessons of frace: part 4

Lesson #4: 2005 is a good year for any French wine. 2003 is a close second.
Or so the guy at the wine cellar in Bordeaux said. He didn't have an open bottle of a 2005 for me to try, but he gave me something similar to the bottle I ultimately bought and man, that was smooth. So I still don't know much about wine, but I figure, if it has a strong alcoholic taste it's not a good wine. And, my friends, the two bottles I bought from him definitely didn't have an alcoholic taste.

But alas, apparently the 2005 is a bottle to keep for another 50 years. I still don't know how you'll know if it'll be good then. Guess it's time for some research!

:) mm wine... Napa trip once I return anyone?

lessons of frace: part 3

Lesson #3: Not everyone has a George or a Mr. Grumbles.
First, perhaps a little story about George. (Ask my sister about the creation of Mr. Grumbles.)

Once upon a time, in the summer of 2005, I was traveling through the United Kingdom, France, Italy, and Spain with three friends. We visited sight after sight, opening our eyes to as much as we could absorb in the few days we were in each city. The four of us flew, took trains, took metros, took buses, and walked. And I must say, there were lots and lots of walking.

Each day we’d get up, get ready, and review our route for the day. Museums, cathedrals, landmarks, street markets, food. We’d have a small breakfast depending on the city we were in, but ultimately it was some bread or a sandwich and coffee or tea. Then we’d go out, explore something or another, and then we’d somehow find ourselves finding food. Then there’d be lunch and we’d eat a wonderful meal. Carry on with touring around on a hot summer day. Perhaps even have a siesta here and there. Find another place for a snack. Continue our day. And find a place to eat dinner. Enjoy the evening, then finally retire to our home away from home (yay hostels!)

After a while, Howard decides to question my requests. “Jane Ann, we just ate _breakfast/lunch/dinner_! Why are you hungry again??”

“I don’t know I just am?”

So we stop and we get something to appease my hunger.

Only, two or three hours later I’d be hungry again. And after several occasions as such, Hannah decides there must be something wrong with me.

“Dude Jane Ann, do you have a tapeworm in you or something? You keep eating!”

“She must, seeing how much she eats!”

And so after a while, my stomach, or rather the tapeworm that must explain my voracious appetite, was given a name: George.

Thus, the creation of George.


Now I knew before coming here that the French are known for smaller but richer portions at the table, and many of my friends joked that I’ll need two portions to satisfy George, but at a proper meal, you’ll have several courses.

First, the apértif. This is usually where we wait for people to arrive. There’ll be wine, drinks, and little snacks to curb your appetite and make everyone friendlier (haha) until the last guest arrives. In most cases, the less formal ones, it’s just a drink at a bar or at home before the meal.

We move to the dining room and then comes the entrée. Not to be confused with the American entrée. The French entrée is the appetizer. Similarly, it’s a small portion of food to get you started. To date, the best one was the fois gras entrée I had in Bordeaux. Wonderfully flavored, and silky smooth. And went well with the white wine that the server presented us.

Afterwards comes the plat or the main dish. Occasionally there’ll be two or three main dishes for you, but not necessarily. (Surely this already seems to be quite a bit, but again, their portions are small.)

Then there’ll be dessert or cheese. Sometimes a salad comes before this, but I haven’t seen this very often. A platter or a basket of cheese, and dining continues encore.

After cheese and dessert, will be coffee or tea to top off the French two-hour meals.

C’est très gentil non?


But meals with people my age often never follow this pattern. Instead, when cooking with my friends, we’ll usually start munching on the baguettes that we’ve bought in attempts to curb our hunger as we start cooking. The butter and cheese come out and some how we’ve managed to consume half a baguette per person. Eek.

Once dinner is finally finished, we move to the dining table and we eat, and eat, and well.. eat some more. Usually there’ll be seconds, and on the occasion, thirds. Très American non?

Dessert hardly comes, but the rest of the baguette is consumed with the cheese all throughout the meal. By the end, we usually look back at all we eat and realize it could have fed maybe five or six people, but alas, we’re only three. Funny thing is, I’m not the last to stop eating. Though I'm definitely not the first. Some people who eat with us will ultimately point out how we (my californian friend here who can out-eat me and myself) can still eat after everyone else has stopped. We'll look at each other and shrug. "We're still hungry though..." Though with a big group I'll stop eating when everyone else has stopped, but I'll still munch on baguettes or other stuff until two hours later when I'm back in the safety of my own home and I'll eat just a bit more. ;)

And so now I think back at all I’ve eaten here and my growing George and I definitely think I should watch what I eat from now on. Well till I get home. Then there’ll be a few weeks dedicated to catching up on all I’ve missed by being in France. And THEN I’ll start up again.

:) Cheers!

lessons of frace: part 2

lesson #2: masculinity versus femininity and the art of flirtation
And this doesn't mean the "You're cute, I want you, I must have you in bed with me" flirting, but the feel good, coy smile, lingering glance, that's not creepy, feeling from a nice conversation, a compliment, leaves you with a lingering smile, flirtation. The charming, light-hearted banter that makes France, Paris, the City of Love. It's the in the moment quick, coy, wit that lasts with just that, no second move, no call later. Just for that moment of friendly conversation, compliment, one liners (no "I wish I were a derivative so I could lie tangent to your curves.") or cute little phrases like: Sois sage! (Be good!), Qu'est-ce que je ferais sans toi? (What would I do without you?), Tu t'en vas déjà? (You're leaving already?), Allez! Reste encore un peu. (Come on! Stay a little bit longer.), T'es drôle! (You're funny!). Yes, even a smile can get you out of an unstamped train ticket (which usually result in a fine), coffee, or just a conversation outside the Louvre.

To be continued..