They laughed when I said I'd bake macarons. Then they tried one.

I was learning them for my sister, Lauren. She was diagnosed as gluten intolerant, and she was coming to town for Thanksgiving. I wanted her to sit down to a dessert she could eat and love, so I taught myself to make macarons.

That first batch was lemon, and it came out crazy and slanted. I sent a photo to the family group chat, and Lauren was the first to answer. She said they looked light and airy. Sweet of her.

I wasn't done. There were a lot of tear-filled baking sessions after that. I kept going, one batch at a time, until I had a recipe I was proud of.

Then the macarons got around. Friends, then Mom's bridge group, then a dentist's office, of all places. The kids moved out, the macarons moved in, and now it's a small business. Last Christmas I baked 100 dozen.

These days I spend a strange amount of time staring through the oven window at macaron feet. (Feet are the small, neat ring at the base of the shell. On a good macaron they're unbroken and straight up, never ruffled.)