Love and meringues

My flatmate makes goddamn fantastic meringues. I normally don’t even like meringues but I love these. My love really does like meringues and he went nuts for these. I knew he had a sweet tooth but it was new to me that meringues are his favourite. “You know what,” he told me with a mouth full of pure sugar, whilst casually wiping the meringue crumbs off his top, “if you learn how to make these, I’ll marry you.”

Now, I recognise a bargain when I see one. I have some objections to marriage as a patriarchal institution invented mostly to render women chattels to men and to keep them in check, but I do really like this chap so I guess I could get over it. I figured that learning how to make meringues as a guarantee for such a lifetime partnership was a pretty good deal.

I asked my flatmate and fortunately, it was no super secret recipe and she was willing to show me how it’s done. It turned out one of the easiest things I have ever made and I was well pleased with the result. I called the man I now believed to have in a marital choke hold to break him the news: “Guess what, pumpkin. You’re stuck with me. I made some jolly good meringues today.”

His reaction was disappointing. Whilst I was hoping for, and half expecting “Oh Dittatrice, you are the woman of my life, you are amazing, look at you making the best meringues ever, get over here so I can marry your arse right off!”, in reality I got “What have meringues got to do with anything?”. My feelings slightly hurt, I reminded him of his promise. “Don’t you remember?”, I asked him. He told me: “No, not really… But it’s more than likely that I did in fact make that promise. I really do love meringues.”

So here we go then:

Dreamy, swirly, delicious, sweet sugar-induced coma bombs.

  • two egg whites (I suggest you keep the yolks and make this)
  • 125gr caster sugar

You’ll also need an electric whisk because I doubt you’ll manage to beat the eggs sufficiently with a normal whisk.

Separate the egg whites from the yolks and put them in a large-ish bowl. Add half the sugar. Whisk until it’s super foamy and doesn’t fall out of the bowl when you hold it upside down. Then add the rest of the sugar and carefully fold it in. Fold, because if you whisk or stir it you’ll make the egg whites collapse.

Baking away.

Line a tray with greaseproof paper. Then, using a couple of teaspoons, drop little amounts of the concoction onto the paper and use the spoons to shape them into cute little swirls.

Stick them in the oven on low heat, 100ºC for 90 minutes.


About La dittatrice

After years of being based in Glasgow, I've recently made a home for myself in Turin, Italy, for the time being, at least. This blog is my captain's log. Here I note down what I did, and what I ate. A story, then a recipe. That's how this here works. Updates on Wednesdays.
This entry was posted in Food, Sweets and desserts, Vegetarian. Bookmark the permalink.

8 Responses to Love and meringues

  1. Gráinne Mortimer says:

    I don’t know whether to laugh or cry a little at your story. Men are such buggers for promising things, when you present them with food.

    As a side note, I cooked my new man your swede soup the other night. He was well impressed, so thank you, La Dittatrice!


    • So glad to hear about the swede soup. Fucken yes to forgotten vegetables. If a new war broke out, we’d be the ones not only to survive, but culinarily speaking enjoy it.

      And no worries about the man, he trusted me enough to believe that he’d actually made that promise. I should have highered the stakes a little and tell him he also promised to buy me a bike and do the washing up forever. Totally missed chance, that one.


      • Ah also, I hope with the soup I have now been forgiven for almost irrevocably ruining your chances with your new man by implicitly calling him a rapist and forgetting his name? Yeeeeees?? *blink blink*


  2. Gráinne Mortimer says:

    Just make him more meringues until he BUYS YOU ALL THE THINGS.

    Of course, I still make fun of him for looking like a rapist. It’s become a running joke. And by running joke, I mean me taking the piss of him while he probably gets a bit annoyed :D



  3. Pingback: The belated but inevitable recipe for pesto alle genovese | La dittatrice della cucina

  4. dellaia says:

    Does, wat een leuk stukje hierboven. Ik heb zitten schuddebuiken van het lachen. En Grainne Mortimers commentaar liegt er ook niet om. Jullie zijn leuk volk.



  5. Pingback: My great-granny’s cherry pie | La dittatrice della cucina

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