The April 2010 Daring Bakers’ challenge was hosted by Esther of The Lilac Kitchen. She challenged everyone to make a traditional British pudding using, if possible, a very traditional British ingredient: suet.
(and oh, what a challenge it was!)
Balance. It’s so easily achieved, if you try.
And I suppose that is what I’m reminding myself of, as I type this post up all over again, casting aside stories of a hot, humid Summer, tea for two with Hilaire and a jaunt around the office on a day of annual leave oh-so-long-ago.
You’d never know it from meeting me, but deep down, I’m actually pretty shy. The over-the-top conjecture? The incessant rambling and madcap outfits? The seemingly aloof stance I take when thrust face first into a crowd of strangers? It’s my way of resisting the urge to freeze, eyes wide open and darting from left to right – or to quietly excuse myself before flying home to where it is safe and small talk is never required.
But this year – the year of change! – I set myself a challenge. I would meet people. As many people as possible. From all over the place. I knew I wouldn’t necessarily like all of them, but oh! The possibilities if I did!
…continue reading green tea macaron with chocolate ganache
I am not the kind of girl that many would call “polished”. I am trying though – donning the occasional dress, wearing neutral coloured pumps, pinning my hair up and sweeping my lashes with mascara. And, I must admit, it’s kinda fun. Not the same kind of fun one can have when decked out in shorts, high tops and a t-shirt, with hair bundled into what-was-once-a-ponytail, but fun nonetheless.
My best friend Miss Shiny, on the other hand, is far more polished than I’ll ever be. Curls neatly in place. Patterned stockings set off against a 1950′s style skirt that nips in at the waist and finishes with a bow. Cropped coats and a dab of lipstick. I can’t wear lipstick even when I try.
You should have seen the look on my face. Two printed sheets in plastic sleeves, complete with highlighting and annotation. Two hours of pacing around the kitchen. Twelve tense minutes staring at the oven door. Ten minutes of eyes scrunched into themselves, lips murmuring “C’mon work work work!” One misread instruction and one minor panic attack. One slightly fed up mother and a spatula.
And then, miraculously, they were done. Slightly glossy outer shell? Check! Chewy melting centre? Check! Feet? Check! My very first batch of macarons, sans catastrophic failure? Hurrah!
