I am a dessert addict.  This, frankly, will not come as a surprise to anyone who knows me even slightly.  I have somehow become the kind of person who gets phone calls from her friends saying “We’re at 23rd and Lexington and need dessert — what’s near here?”  I have two favorite places for madeleines, a favorite for almond croissants, and do not even get me started on chocolates.  Like any serious dessert person, I make them at home a LOT.  Why?  Dude, I can’t be running out to Balthazar every time I have a dessert emergency.  I have things to do.  And no one in New York seems to make an adequate pecan pie.

My dessert addiction isn’t the problem.  I am at peace with my massive sweets consumption and the fact that I’m likely to crystallize into a giant sugar cube by the time I hit age 70.  Here’s the problem.  The new guy?  He’s allergic to milk proteins.

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