|One of the few zillion macaron pictures taken off the internet.|
Dear macarons, you are grossly over-rated, over-priced and I don't like the way you're stacked so pretentiously at posh hotel lobbies and traditional-bakeries-now-called-boutiques. And I detest that you have taken over the place of my favourite herbed breads.
How is it people have not realised that, at six hundred grams of sugar per batch, you are the shortest cut to wide hips and diabetes. The only thing more than the sugar are the exclamation marks people use when they describe you. You are as fake as the gaudy colours you purportedly boast about, always trying to get as much attention as you can, and exuding such an upperty air about you as you become so ubiquitous. My darling, when you part your bright, luscious lips, you ooze of sweetness, and you try so damn hard to melt weak, fluttering hearts.
Things between us don't have to get this bad if not for your scheming, deceptive nature. There's something deeply disturbing about how you've deceived the whole world into loving you when in fact you are worth nothing. I have major trust issues if you continue to be so pretentious.
You make food bloggers think it would be such a baker's challenge to figure you out, and anyone who has successfully made a batch run out to the blogosphere to boast about how awesome you look. At your core, you're hollow and nothing but 4-day stale and dehydrated egg whites.
Youths spend their meagre pocket money on you and you've deviously creeped in to become the defacto prized possession for every birthday gift. They even Instagram the box you come in. Under my intense interrogation, a few pastry chefs have confessed to me how cheap you really are. You are such a waste of time, money and life.
If you feel I'm emblematic of anal people who can't enjoy their food without doing a calorie count, so be it. I don't care for your fillings. Plus, I bet they'll want me to write a similar post on your poorer cupcake cousins. What an idea.
Did I say it also irritates me that your "feet" are also called your "crown"? So you don't even understand your own body parts, how can I even think that you would comprehend the least bit about the importance of being true to yourself? Come to think of it - your name, your name. Macaron, macaroon, macaroni, macerena...I'll settle with Glam Morons.
You, Monsier Macaron Moron, have forgotten where you came from. You were a lovely cookie! I don't know how else to break this to you but right now, you are nothing but empty food and there is NO NEED for you to have to exist. Start being proud of your heritage, and since you choose to look like an UFO, do me a favour and fly back to your humble beginnings. Then maybe, just maybe, I may start to like you.
P/S: Sorry this has to come on Bastille Day. I love France and I love Sous Vide and I love to Confit.
P/P/S: Hmm...the last food I talked to directly was My Spanish Seabass.