I love meringue. I love the way it floats, then melts in your mouth like a cloud. I’m embarrassed to admit how much of it I can eat in one sitting. Years ago, while vacationing in Paris, I surprised even myself. Poor Barnaby got a stomach bug and was hotel-bound, so I went out in search of something to soothe the belly: yogurt and medicine for him; wine, cheese, and meringue for me. I took the loot back to our shoebox-sized room and hoped that, by some miracle, he would be cured and ready to enjoy the feast. Not a chance. Along with my stinky cheese, I was banned to the tiny fire escape to snack. While Barnaby hugged the toilet, I noshed shamelessly on my cheese and wine.

Then came the meringue.

I pulled out the near-dinner-plate-sized beauty and even Barnaby in his deathly state exclaimed, “Holy crap, that thing is huge!”

Indeed. I took two hands to hold the fluffy white mound of glorious almond-studded meringue – the largest I’d ever seen. I had seen piles of them in the bakery window and am sure the baker didn’t appreciate my drooling all over the outside of his window. I refrained myself and bought only one.

Then ate the entire thing.

Last week my friend, without knowing about my meringue madness, made a stunning pavlova for dessert (she went to culinary school in Paris back in the day). I squealed when I saw it. It was a masterpiece. She formed the meringue into a bowl, into which she spread a lemon curd, anchored it with dark chocolate, then topped it with fresh blue- and blackberries.

Mon dieu!!

“Oh no, I couldn’t eat a piece that size!” I exclaimed as she placed an enormous slice on my plate.

“Oh yes she can!” Barnaby countered.

And I did.

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