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Marcel Proust had his petites madeleines. I have my macaroons.

For Proust, the scalloped-shaped buttery cake -- especially when dipped into tea -- elicited a rush of unparalleled pleasure, so much so that he was able to tap into his clammed-up consciousness. This is no Remembrance of Things Past, and I cannot confirm or deny that macaroons contain psychoanalytic ingredients, but April for me is never the cruellest month, if only because it ushers in the arrival of my favourite dessert.

For those who observe Passover, macaroons are a carte blanche to eat cookies, most of which cannot be consumed over the eight-day period because they contain leavening.

Of greater concern to me is finding time to make the trip to Toronto's Harbord Bakery (115 Harbord St., 416-922-5767), where, in the days leading up to Passover, they make delicious coconut and almond macaroons.

But it is the pistachio variety -- made simply from the namesake nut, sugar and egg white -- that has me addicted. I consume easily a dozen a day. And they don't come cheap: $17.50 a pound compared with $12 and $15 for coconut and almond. Twist-tied cellophane bags are arbitrarily apportioned; I'll eyeball a larger one (14 cookies) and fork over a $10 bill. Their chewy centre, crunchy outer layer and three-bite size are priceless from my palette's perspective. I appreciate that they are not overstylized (the nut pieces prohibit perfect piping). They are a close cousin to marzipan, but less refined.

Forget the written word. I say their speckled chartreuse hue makes them the ideal specimen to be rendered on canvas -- think Wayne Thiebaud meets Georges Seurat. A masterpiece. A mouth-watering work of art.

Or maybe just a sweet stolen moment when my serotonin levels surge.