I
once shared my life with a boy who adored pistachios. He demolished them roasted and salted, and thoroughly
enjoyed them in biscotti, but his absolute favorite form was gelato, preferably
consumed in Rome. Whenever I see
pistachio gelato, I think of him.
Another of his favorite treats is a bag of traditional Italian almond
cookies, and when we were together I made these knockoffs for him – the same
day I bought the almond crème I used in that much loved recipe, I also picked
up a jar of pistachio crème, with the express intention of using it to make
pure pistachio cookies for him on some special occasion.
Unfortunately, despite there being many ‘special occasions’ that last year, somehow the cookies were never a top priority. The jar sat in the kitchen, patiently waiting to be used by some day before February 28, 2014. At the time that seemed miles away, yet February came upon me so fast and here was the jar, still staring at me; when the boy it was intended for broke my heart I had thought to pour the crème all over his expensive clothes and fancy felt hat, but instead I packed it in my suitcase and took it with me to America, hoping to one day make something sweet for someone else.
Well,
I didn’t make it for anyone else, but that was a silly thought – and a
spiteful one – anyway. I don’t really
bake for the men I date, after my banana bread received a middling (and I’m
pretty sure pure negging) review from someone I dated back in October. The sheer blasphemy was enough to end that
brief dalliance (not really, but it was one of the nails in the coffin). No, these days I bake for family and friends,
and for myself, and I try to pour as much love as I can into those treats, as
if to make up for all the love I spent on the boy who threw it all away.
