Macarons remind me of the time I was living in my first apartment in Chicago on Webster/Damen. The building was brick, historic, but the kitchen was futuristic and minimal: I imagine it had brothers and sisters in downtown Stockholm. Around that time, I started baking macarons. Little did I know there is a delicate art to making these fragile, lovely little cookies. Numerous failed attempts left laying on the kitchen floor, sobbing to my father on the phone. I'm quitting baking for real this time, I would tell him. Turns out, in those days, I just as fragile and delicate as a little macaron. But I didn't give up. And I found that the road to mastering the art of macarons, however exasperating, is most rewarding and delicious road of all.