There are days you wake up and just know you’re not emotionally equipped to face marzipan.
Albert had already bitten JC’s toothbrush in half before 8:30, which is his way of expressing that he doesn’t approve of rushed mornings. JC responded by loudly whispering “serenity now, serenity now,” like a man halfway through a midlife crisis and desperate yoga playlist. I was still in my robe, clutching a packet of pine nuts like it was a stress ball, because I’d decided — foolishly, wildly — that this would be the year I’d make panellets from scratch.
You know panellets, right? Those weirdly sweet, dense little Catalan treats that look like old grandmothers made them during thunderstorms and passed them down with a curse and a kiss? Marzipan rolled in pine nuts, baked for just long enough to trick your brain into thinking autumn is charming.
Anyway, I thought I’d try to connect with the la Castanyada spirit. Be a good local. Blend in. Maybe post a humblebrag on Instagram about embracing traditions. But here’s the truth:
I had no business being near an oven that day.
So, I start with the almonds. Blanched, ground, too many for one food processor. I kill the small one. Smoke. Albert’s laughing — real, giggly, shoulders-shaking laughter — because apparently broken appliances are his version of slapstick comedy. That was the only highlight of the morning.
Then comes the sugar. I misread the recipe. 300 grams? No. I poured in 500 and made something between edible concrete and early medieval mortar. JC walked in, sniffed the air, and asked if I was melting garden furniture. I told him to leave. He nodded, slowly, like someone backing away from an unstable stranger. Which… fair.
At this point, I was muttering “tradition is a lie” under my breath and kneading the mix like it had insulted my family. It stuck to my hands like resentment. I rolled the mess into lumpy little shapes, dunked them in egg white, and tried to balance pine nuts on each one like I was building edible hedgehogs.
Then I put them in the oven.
Then I forgot I put them in the oven.
Why? Because Albert decided he needed to wear all six of his favourite t-shirts simultaneously. Over his pyjamas. He couldn’t get the third one past his elbows. Cue tantrum. Cue me wrestling cotton off a furious nine-year-old who’s screeching like a kettle with opinions.
Twenty minutes later, the smell hits. Not baking. Not caramelised. No. This was the smell of defeat.
I sprinted down the stairs like a woman in a house fire commercial. Opened the oven. There they were. Once-proud panellets now blackened, collapsed, pine-nut-encrusted meteorites. A quiet sadness spread through the kitchen, like even the kettle knew I’d failed.
That’s when the cat walked in.
Now. Let me be clear. The cat had nothing to do with this. He’d been outside judging lizards. But in that moment, I looked at his stupid fluffy face and I said, without hesitation:
“It was the cat.”
JC — back from a phone call — just stared at me. “Sorry?”
“The cat. Knocked the timer. Or the temperature. He does that.”
“The cat changed the oven settings?”
“Yes.”
“Annie. He doesn’t have opposable thumbs.”
“Shut up, JC.”
Later that day, I gave Albert one of the burnt panellets, just to see. He bit into it, paused, and whispered, “no.” Just that. No further elaboration. No thanks, no spitting, just no. And I respected it. We all should have said no earlier.
So, no panellets this year. The pine nuts are still stuck to the baking tray like fossils. The cat has regained his innocence. JC keeps sending me links to “easier traditions.” Albert? He’s wearing a single t-shirt today. A small win. We take them.
And me?
Well. I’m already eyeing a recipe for crema catalana.
Pray for me.