Homemade, raw chocolate chip cookie dough. It’s my Kryptonite.
If I was a death row inmate, I’d have cookie dough made with Hershey’s semi-sweet chocolate chips and Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee as my last meal. Buzzing on caffeine and sugar, I’d skip into the death chamber, memories of my Jamaican honeymoon and sitting at my mother’s kitchen table, licking the beaters from her latest batch of cookies swirling in my head. I’d die happy.
Before I began my eight-weeks to wellness program, I typically had a Ziploc bag full of cookie dough in the freezer. I’d grab a little morsel now and again to reward myself for going to yoga class, or volunteering at my children’s school, or, for making the long, arduous trek from the second floor all the way to the freezer. However small the accomplishment, a cookie dough ball was a just reward.
Given my weakness for the sugary ball of goodness, I haven’t made any since I began this quest. I didn’t want the temptation.
Last night, my daughter Amanda had a few friends over and she made cookies. There’s cookie dough in my freezer right now, beckoning me like a Siren.
If I cheat am I wrecking all my progress? What’s a girl to do?