Cookies

I made chocolate chip cookies this afternoon, something that I know I shouldn't do. Before the cookies even get in the oven, there I am, devouring the dough. The conglomeration of butter and two varieties of sugar mixed with flour and a bit of oatmeal tantalize my tongue. I savor the texture of cookie dough. I delight in the taste of cookie dough. I wish I could live on cookie dough alone for at least a day.

So by the time I actually start baking the cookies in the oven, their quanitity has been reduced by at least a third, and after thirteen minutes in the oven (thirteen minutes exactly, because I am a strict user of oven timers, and I know that thirteen minutes results in the perfect chocolate chip cookie) they look scrumptious. Using a cheap plastic pancake turner I transfer them over to my extra large cutting board to cool. And after a few minutes I run out of patience, pour a tall, sleek plastic glass of cold skim milk and eat at least one finished cookie. I have to find out if they are edible. I'd hate to poison someone that happened to walk into the kitchen and grab a cookie. I'm only looking out for the welfare of those around me. Sometimes I need to taste test two cookies just to make sure they are OK. And if I'm especially worried, I like to have three just to be on the safe side.

And to make me an even more villainous person in the eyes of pediatric nutrionalists, I even shared one of these amazing chocolate chip cookies with my daughter after she woke up from her nap. She was thrilled, and suggested I have a cookie with her at the table. So I did. Along with another glass of milk. And then we went for a very long walk. This evening I am wrestling with psychological guilt and blisters on the bottom of my feet from my tennis shoes trodding along the sidewalk pushing the stroller.