Give me a sunny day and I'll give you a meringue.

I have come to realize meringues are a love 'em or a no way kind of sweet. I have clients, friends and family who would be happy to eat them every day and know others whose teeth hurt just thinking about the first bite.

Meringues are very magical, on that we all must agree. Billowing clouds from egg white and sugar? Amazing! However, when you read in an ancient Joy of Cooking "never attempt on a day with the slightest humidity" (read to self in dowager tone) one can become quite intimidated by the meringue.

When a day like today comes along, I can tell by the crisp shadows of the Dogwood blossoms on the stone path and the endlessly blue sky, it is a meringue day.

I go to the kitchen and whisk, fold and gently encourage poufs of pink off the spoon and on to the parchment. I used to pipe meringues from my pastry bag which is intensely satisfying; the squeezing of the bag, the rows of perfection and uniformity. Embracing the charm of imperfection and the decidedly homemade effect is a more accurate expression of myself and suits me so much better.
I deliver.