Last night, around 10.30, my husband was eating a very late dinner and I was sitting on the couch, nearby, thumbing through the new Rose Levy Beranbaum cookbook, The Baking Bible. It is filled with recipes for things I’d never make, and has a few things I’d probably make once in a while when feeling exceptionally energetic. One such thing was called Meringue Birch Twigs. I’ve been on a meringue kick lately, so it seemed like a plausible thing. Also, the recipe mentioned that serving them in a vase is very festive-looking, which also seemed likely to me.
“Look,” I said to my husband, bringing the book over so he could see the glossy photo.
“What happened to you?” he asked.
“What?” I said. “Wouldn’t this be fun to serve to guests on New Year’s Day, when we’re having people over?”
“You know, I remember you when you didn’t cook at all,” he said. “And now look at you. I remember when you would have looked at a recipe like this and said, “What is this twee bullshit?”
I started to laugh. “I don’t know what happened,” I admitted.
“You used to make fun of stuff like this,” he said.
“I notice you don’t mind eating stuff like this when I make it,” I countered.
“That’s true,” he said.
“Your internist said you should eat more cookies,” I reminded him.
“It’s true,” he said.
I might be making Meringue Birch Twigs for New Year’s Day. We’ll see.
This Old Hausfrau 
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