French Macarons Part 1

Here are my final words (well, until I get a new batch of eggs...): 

Don't try making these. You're better off just buying them.

Or, if you're slightly compulsive and delusional anyway (like myself), then be prepared to suffer... and not do anything else for the next week or so. This macaron-making adventure is consuming my life and destroying my self-esteem. I can only say: I am obsessed. 

It all began with my chocolate challenge. I wanted to make chocolate macarons. Then, I thought, maybe I'll just start with the basics, the plain almond-sugar version. C'mon, let's be honest now. Haven't you ever looked at or bitten into one of these heavenly little delights and thought to yourself "Ooo, they are so pretty but why are they so expensive? I mean how hard could they be to make?" Ha. HA! Evil little bastards. 

I can hear the voices of numerous other ardent bakers who have long suffered my current fate before their glorious moment of victory: "Old egg whites! Use new egg whites! One tray! Two trays! Italian meringue! French meringue! Stiff peaks, soft peaks! Closed oven! Opened  oven! Slightly opened oven! Ribbons! Bands! Lava! High speed my friend! Low speed my friend! It has to be shiny! It can't be liquid! Don't overfold! It has to flow like lava from Mount Hapinapanui! Dry them before baking! Don't dry them - just stick them straight into the oven. They need to have feet...le pied - that's what makes a REAL macaron!  It's all about the macaronnage!" OMFG.

Yes, the macaronnage. The French know all about it... The beautiful and magical (kind of like a unicorn) yet strangely unattainable moment that can only be captured with the precise balance between mixing the almond meal into the meringue and creating the exact amount of air bubbles without leaving the mixture overly folded. (I just shot myself in the head with an imaginary bullet.) And those damn little 'pieds'. I've made about four batches now. (If you were wondering where I've disappeared to and why I haven't posted in so long, this is why.) My cousin thinks I'm insane because I keep yelling "Where are the feet? There's no feet!" while staring at my oven in despair. Even my mother is slightly concerned. ("How many more batches of these do we have to eat? What ARE you trying to make?") 

As with all obsessions, I have reached the point of no return. It is too late to give up. I will not stop. I will not rest until I bake them with feet. 

I need more eggs.