Often, I am overcome by the desire to eat something sweet. And by often, I mean with the increasing frequency of a heavy cocaine user. I might be able to go hours without a cookie or handful of Skittles, but once sugar hits my tongue and my brain gets wind of it, it demands more and more. So, by bedtime, I’m pouring a 42 ounce bag of Skittles down my throat. “Just a little nightcap.” Usually, these desires are specific. I can make due with what I have, say a Milky Way Bar found in the back of the freezer, but it won’t be satisfying. But it will hold me over until I summon the energy or self-loathing, however you view it, to wander off into the streets in my pajamas to buy whatever it is my brain is demanding. “Sheet cake!”
Lately, it’s been cookie dough. But not the tube of pre-made cookie dough. No, that’d be too easy. It has to be homemade cookie dough for two reasons. 1) Making the cookie dough myself at least makes me feel like I’m being productive 2) God only knows what chemicals are in the pre-made cookie dough. Which makes no sense since I’m constantly eating Red No.4 from all the gummy candy I consume. But that’s natural. I heard it’s made from ground up beetles.
So I make the cookie dough, all the while telling myself I’m going to bake them. I don’t. At least, not at first. Usually, I get 2/3 of the way through it over a period of a few days. After countless trips to the fridge to reach it and haul out the Ziplock bag of dough. “Rustle rustle thud thud” Eventually, I give it and bake them. Not from self-preservation to keep myself from eating raw eggs, but now my brain wants a different texture. “Make them chewy!” After I bake them, this usually equates to about 6 cookies. The recipe calls for almost 3 dozen.
They can pry my cookie dough from my cold dead hands.