Lemon Meringue Macarons (For When You’re Dead Inside But Still Have Obligations)
If Easter makes you think of pastel florals, sun-drenched brunches, and well-adjusted families... congrats on your stable upbringing. The rest of us will be over here, shoving lemon meringue macarons into our mouths while passive-aggressively dodging family drama and pretending not to resent the resurrection narrative.
These macarons are deceptively delicate. Much like your ability to keep it together when your aunt asks why you're still single. They’ve got a bright lemon shell (cheerful! vibrant! masking chaos!) filled with tart lemon curd and a pillow of toasted meringue that looks like hope but tastes like revenge.
They’re also annoyingly precise to make—like assembling a tiny edible Fabergé egg with the emotional stability of a Victorian ghost. But once you nail the macaron shell (I believe in you, even if your therapist is still on the fence), the rest is a sugary descent into springtime decadence.
Whether you’re hosting Easter brunch, crashing one, or hiding in your car with a Tupperware of baked goods and a rage playlist, these lemon meringue macarons are the ideal accessory. Sunshine in a bite. Rage in a shell. Fluffy lies and citrus truth.
If Easter conjures up images of fresh tulips, sunshine, and family harmony, I kindly ask you to stop reading and go touch grass. The rest of us will be here, frantically piping lemon meringue macarons while seething about the fact that 30,000 real eggs were recently dumped on the White House lawn by a sentient jar of bronzer with felony charges.
The Macaron Shells
100g egg whites, room temp
90g granulated sugar
140g almond flour (sifted, twice, because you suffer)
130g powdered sugar (ditto on the sifting)
1/4 tsp cream of tartar
1/2 tsp vanilla extract
1–2 drops yellow gel food coloring
Whisk the egg whites until frothy in a stand mixer, then slowly rain in the granulated sugar. Once it's glossy, add the cream of tartar. Beat to stiff peaks, but not to the point of rigor mortis. Toward the end, mix in vanilla and a whisper of yellow food coloring.
Macaronage time: Fold in the dry ingredients in two batches with a spatula, gently, like you’re petting a feral cat. Stir until the mix flows like molten lava and mildly ruined dreams. Pipe onto silicone mats, whack the tray like it owes you money, and let them dry at least 30 minutes until they’ve formed a skin.
Lemon Curd (Because We’re Not Wasting Yolks in This Economy)
1/2 cup granulated sugar
1 tbsp lemon zest
3 egg yolks (hoarded from earlier)
1/4 cup lemon juice
1/4 cup cold butter, cubed
Optional: drop of lemon extract if you’re feeling extra
Mix the zest and sugar like you’re summoning citrus spirits—grind, pulse, or stir aggressively. In a small saucepan over low heat, whisk together the sugar mixture and egg yolks. Stir in the lemon juice and keep whisking until it thickens to coat the back of a spoon. Patience, my heathens, this may take several minutes. Remove from heat, whisk in butter, and chill with plastic wrap on top so it doesn’t grow skin. Because we only allow one skin in this recipe. Since this is a baking blog I should probably stop talking about skin so much.
The Frosting (Pick Your Poison)
You want something to keep the curd contained and your emotional stability in check. I went with cream cheese frosting because I like a little tang to counteract the sweet and the screaming. Buttercream or even coconut would also work. Go feral with it.
Assembly (Where the Magic Dies Beautifully)
Bake those dried shells at 280°F for 16–18 minutes, turning halfway. One tray at a time, because macarons are the diva queens of the oven and demand the spotlight. Let cool. Pipe a ring of frosting, fill the center with lemon curd, and sandwich together like the passive-aggressive hug you gave your aunt last Easter.
Now serve. Or hoard. Either way, you’ve made sunshine out of despair—and that’s the real resurrection story.
P.S. This will be on TikTok and Youtube, paired with the story of Khadijah Britton.