Most, if not all, of the blog posts I’ve read about pavlovas begin by mentioning that the origin of the dessert is fiercely debated. Some argue that the pavlova is a purely Australian dessert, named after visiting Russian ballerina Anna Pavlova, while others argue it originated in New Zealand.
I have found that the former is the generally agreed upon introduction to a post about pavlova. I hope it caught your attention like you never imagined a post about pavlova could.
I’ve made countless batches of macarons over the last month, experimenting with all sorts of flavours. These, the Mogador macaron by Pierre Hermé, are one of my favourite flavours.
The egg shell thick shell gives way to a pillowy almond meringue and a decadent, floral passion fruit-milk chocolate ganache. The acidity of the passion fruit balanced the sweetness of the milk chocolate nicely. They were totally worth risking my life for. Consume more content
A big mug sat in front of me, lemon seeds dotting the surface. Sugar crystals lay beside the mug, spilled onto the table despite my deliberate watchfulness to not spill any. It wasn’t as much carefulness as prolonging the time until I would have to touch my lips to the concoction in front of me. The brown mug, covered with spider-vein like cracks held a drink that I despised: tea.
Almost every morning, for fourteen years, I was faced with a mug of tea. It was the reason that I didn’t want to get out of bed. It was a jolt of caffeine that tasted like water. I can understand why people drink coffee, but tea? I wasn’t a big fan. The black leaves that sat in the bottom of the cup, like bitter shreds of confetti, were avoided at all costs as I took sips from the cup.
