A Good Diet Needs a Bad Cook

I actually made this crispy rice pumpkin.
Pumpkins are SUPPOSED to be misshapen.
And, I can't burn stuff  I don't have to cook.

    I am feeling a tad guilty for scarfing cookie dough as I compose this post. As an eternal student who is returning to school next year to minor in Nutrition, I feel that maybe I could remain more true to myself by eating Cheez Doodles, or some other standout from the dairy group. Women are at increased risk of osteoporosis, after all. Then again, my English Writing major has not compelled me to abandon my torrid love affair with sentence fragments. Like this one.

     This pathological hypocrisy just indicates what I have secretly always known: The only appropriate course of study for a person of my pitiful moral character would be Abnormal Psychology. But, you know how something you do every day as a hobby suddenly loses its joy, and even becomes a burden, once you are forced to write term papers about it? That's my relationship with Abnormal Psychology, or "Abby" as I fondly call it, because we have reached the point of comfort in our long-term relationship that I now give it pet names. I worry that it would be less fun to go insane if my essays recounting it were actually graded. The rejection might make me go... insane-er. So, I'm sticking to the Nutrition, and it is sticking to me. Mostly to my hips. Even broccoli goes straight to them.

My Fall "cookies."
I tried to make them orange.
I also tried to make them....cookies.
New record for flat pastries.

    With the holiday season upon us, I am certain to be tempted by its caramel apples, candy corn, and cans of pumpkin pie filling that I once ate straight from the jar but never will again because it it not nearly as good as you might expect. They taunt me at every turn in my enormous pantry.  So, it's a relief to know that at least any seasonal dessert recipe I attempt will result in an epic fail. This leads to a forced reduction in my sugar consumption, and helps me to maintain the degree of physical health necessary to sit on my sofa in a lively fashion.

Sprinkles make everything better.
Except these cookies.
They are beyond hope.

 





 
    I like to think that when my family looks back on these happy years, they will fondly recount how their home always smelled of burned food. I may not be a perfect wife or mother, but my record as a poor pastry chef is impeccable. Because of me, my children will grow up on a nutritious raw diet rivaling that of any Hollywood starlet.

    Incidentally, if you (like me) want to eat bowls of pastry dough in privacy, and tell yourself you are just looking out for the health of others by not sharing, I have found the answer. I always sneak my junk food into my room by hiding it in an important-looking box. "Yep, just looking in this old shoebox, full of receipts that need to be filed chronologically. Anybody want to help me? No? OK, I'll just be in my room. Eating broccoli."

   Just kidding. Not only would such a comment be dishonest, but nobody who knows me would buy the broccoli claim. A Nutrition curriculum only goes so far.