Her name was Mabel.

She was my gramma. And if there's one thing you should know about her, it's that she was a force to be reckoned with.

I come from a long line of strong women, and Mabel carried that legacy with quiet determination, a mischievous streak, and absolutely no shortage of opinions. Widowed at 53, she never remarried. Instead, she built a full, beautiful life on her own terms in Williston, North Dakota—a place where winter isn't so much a season as a test of character. She shoveled her own snow, mowed her own lawn, and tended a garden that could make a florist jealous. Her home was immaculate, her meals were made from scratch, and even when cooking for one, she believed a proper dinner was worth the effort.

And boy, could she play a mean game of pinochle. Or Rummikub. We'd spend hours around the table, hearing her mutter "dang-nabbit" when the cards didn't fall her way. And then came that laugh. A glorious, infectious giggle, usually accompanied by a snarky remark, that could set the entire room off.

Her kitchen was a place of comfort and care, where Scandinavian Christmas traditions were practically sacred—even the lutefisk. She taught me that the smallest things, done thoughtfully, could mean the most. And that you showed up for family. Always.

I can't begin to put into words how proud I am to come from this remarkable line of women. My gramma was strong, spirited, endlessly capable, and full of love. I still miss her every single day.

So why macarons?

Because beneath their delicate, polished exterior, there's a surprising amount of personality. A little sweet. Occasionally savory. Beautifully made, with more going on than first meets the eye.

Just like Mabel.

Mabel's Macarons carries her name, her spirit, and a little of her sass. It's my way of honoring a woman who taught me to never underestimate a gal with a good laugh and a winning hand.