Mastering Macarons - Attempt One

Travelling around France in 2008 I bought a macaron cookbook.

Two actually. 

Both full of pictures, both full of delicious recipes, both in French. 

But I bought them none the less, because I loved the macarons I'd been sampling throughout France and because I wanted to be able to continue sampling these amazing desserts when I went home, to a city where macarons were mistaken for macaroons.

Then in 2009, before Perth acquired an obsession with these French desserts and before everyone wanted to learn to make them, we took up the challenge, Claire Madeleine and I. As I have since learnt, macarons are difficult to make regardless, but on this occasion, we were cooking from a French recipe, with only Google to translate it for us. We followed the recipe to the letter, though it would have been easier if each of us had been a multi-armed Hindu goddess in our manipulation of the spatula, mixture, mixing bowl and piping bag. Somehow we managed, with the oven soon filled with trays of promising macarons.

They were passable. In the oven they looked pretty enough, but the cooking time wasn't nearly enough resulting in sticky collapsed rounds that needed to be prised off the baking paper.

However, with a liberal scoop of chocolate icecream, or dollop of lemon curd they tasted delicious, and with careful positioning could be made to look delectable... in a rustic sense.

Galatea

Even before her descent from the marble pedestal Galatea was beautiful. Her features had been sculpted in the likeness of Aphrodite: fairest of all, and while Athene had breathed life into her, she had been blessed by the Graces and had the Muses Clio and Polyhymnia  bestow upon her their passions. And yet man, be he king, sculptor or lowly scribe is never satisfied, and though presented with his heart’s desire, the embodiment of a goddess, Pygmalion began to find faults in this woman; Faults he couldn’t believe had been present in his statue. He knew that like his creation this woman was delightful to behold, but he wouldn’t admit it to the world.  Instead he preferred to display an affectation of modesty all the while drawing his own eye to the ever-so-subtle changes between the living, breathing woman before him and his nostalgic remembrances of the cold forbidding statue he had spent so many months in creating.

The statuesque Galatea was no longer what he wanted: he saw her as flawed. Pygmalion wanted his dream, his statue, his goddess back. He wanted back the smooth and perfectly poised figure who remained with him always and steadily gazed at him through unblinking eyes. She, who was moulded to his beliefs, his desires, and his interpretations of beauty and her sex. But lightening does not strike twice in the same place, and so the blessings of the Gods are not again bestowed on those who sneered at the initial gift. Galatea, by all means as divine as men chose to call her, was indeed no match for a mere mortal; She could returned to her infinitely more appreciative sisters who graced Mount Olympus and the paradise of Mt Parnassus. As for the sculptor, well… his pedestal remained forever empty, for where a gift from the Gods is but shunned, no mere mortal can ever hope to succeed. 

Ad Nauseum

Glancing at the clock, the girl groaned inwardly and rolled onto her side. It was 3 am and the dull pain in her stomach was keeping her awake another night. It was a feeling she remembered too well: the introduction of a violent illness that had plagued her three months earlier and ruined her last days in Prague. She didn’t mind the aching nausea so much as the symptoms that had already visited her once today. She rolled over and glanced at the clock again. This time it read 03:04, causing another groan to escape into the room. This time it was as much one of inconvenience: in the morning she was supposed to catch a train to Frankfurt to make the flight home. Under ordinary circumstances, she would have felt exhilarated, and probably even enjoyed the nine hour trip north, but her rapidly approaching symptoms rendered this somewhat doubtable this time round.

Feeling her stomach knot, she slipped out of bed taking extra care not to rouse her sleeping friend. ‘She could handle it this time’ she told herself. ‘She didn’t need to worry Cleo like last time.’ It wasn’t that she didn’t want the fuss. In fact at the moment it was that maternal care she most craved. It was that she’d stress Cleo, who in turn would pick up the phone and stress her parents. She reached the bathroom with no problems, and leaning over, emptied the minimal contents of her stomach into the toilet bowl. She hadn’t dined that night, feeling too nauseous to keep anything down and for a short moment was unconsciously glad of that fact: this time it was only bile and essential minerals she was loosing, not the calzone and coffee she’d enjoyed at lunch. Standing up, she staggered to the sink to rinse out her mouth and freshen up. Looking in the mirror she watched motionless as the gaunt reflection before her slowly blurred and wavered before disappearing out the bottom of the mirror.

The crash of her limp frame against the door was enough that when she regained consciousness, Cleo knelt beside her, with the phone in one hand. 

The Marbles of Elgin

The British Museum is a treasure trove spanning across cultures and centuries and it can take weeks to visit even a half of the rooms, let alone come to grips with the stories therein. Here is the story of British trade routes and agreements, British exploration and British colonisation.

However I have a favourite room: that of the Elgin Marbles.

An Honour: Artemis

Possessive of a sheltered heart, fiery attitude and frosty eyes, this deity calculates and cultivates her identity and her worth, a standpoint that projects a grounding view of humanity. Her quiver is always full of sharpened arrows, which never fail to hit their target, a truth that is at times unfortunate. In step with this is the temper of a Titian, and a thirst for revenge or cruelty of a sort. This streak of evil causes many acquaintances to be taken aback as it belies their expectations of a sweet conservative pious maiden. Watching mankind for afar, she has developed a wisdom and outlook that, despite her experience could stand her in good stead. However blending with this strange mixture of cruelty and worldliness is something of a naivety and innocence which causes her to also be protected and encouraged by her fellow Olympians. 

An Honour: Chiron

Learned teacher of man and God, Chiron faintly echoes the shallow lustful nature of his brothers while dedicating himself to his loved ones and his books. Unlike his brothers in character, he is able to view his world objectively from the shelter of his papered cave, and provide meaningful instruction for his fellow deities and protégés. Though the fires of immortality burn through his veins, the love and gratitude of the gods will do much to ensure that his skills are appreciated and his name is written in the stars. Chiron’s poison arrow is an immortal pain, an insecurity of his worth that could, if not overcome, terminate his future. 

An Honour: Ares

One of the least threatening of the deities in spite of his martial prowess and rearing is Ares. This god’s title means very little for he repeatedly fails to realise the ideals that the Gods are supposed to imbue. One of the more passionate of the cohort, this soldier, surrounding himself with glory, follows his emotions and flaring passions in regimental style. The repetition and predictability of these offences reinforces that he cares not for the merits of an individual conquest but purely for the fact that he has a conquest to achieve. It is for this reason that he falls before the strategy and wisdom of the calm and controlled Athene. 

An Honour: Athene

Goddess of wisdom, strategy, and foresight. As the eldest of her father’s daughters, she has subsumed the maternal role and organises the events of the season while still keeping a watchful eye out for her younger sisters. As a replacement Hera she has subconsciously absorbed her stepmother’s marital feelings, although with more pressing matters at hand, it has so far had little affect. This immortal princess has been found to be generous with both her time and her possessions. The pragmatist in her demands that she never approaches an adventure blindly or unaware of the possible outcomes or pitfalls that could eventuate. Meanwhile as the strategist, she may hold an ace or two up her sleeve, and has proved more than once the benefits of strategy and foresight especially combined with the passions of [war]. However it must not be forgotten that she has both a wit and a sense of humour that does unexpectedly bubble to the surface, influencing her generosity and contributing to her already bright-eyed personality.

Dawn Farewell

The girl stood at the fence quietly watching as the bus rolled down the slope and out of sight. She had woken early that morning because she needed to say that final goodbye. Needed to say something, though she still knew not what. The previous night had been the beginning of the end: a festive gathering of friends, though there contained a thread of sadness: it had been the chance to farewell old friends and wish them well in the years to come. For the girl, the young man had prolonged that farewell until the last minute. She’d hoped to spend the morning with him, watching the sunrise over the lake, bringing with it new hopes and new paths into the world. Unfortunately she had watched the sun rise alone, unprotected from the chill that was creeping through her veins.

As the bus rounded the corner and was lost from sight, the tears the girl had fought so hard to hold back had welled up and cascaded down her face. However she remained motionless, unable to halt their course or quench their flow. It was possible that that had been their final meeting. The last time he would stand before her humble and distressed by her silence. The last time she would see him, hear him, laugh with him, tease him, and be comforted by him. The last time she would watch as a smile lit up his eyes and face

Her thoughts moved through the approaching future in which he played no role. Already he was becoming little more than a pleasant memory and the cause of a wonderful week. She knew he’d never fade. The memories they shared were too precious and too important to her: they were all she had to remind her of that idyll. But the last one was most precious: as he stood waiting for the words to come to her, as the bus stood waiting for him.

The sun’s embrace was now warming; it curled around her back and lapped at her stained cheek. But the girl felt nothing. She had already slipped into her memories for that last embrace before he had disappeared into the still morning.