I like the idea of baking. I like the image of pulling out warm, tasty goodness from my oven and presenting this home-baked bounty to my family. Measuring, mixing and baking with love ensures at least one entry into a possible Mother of the Year contest, doesn't it?
The problem with any and all of my forays into baked goods is that I can't handle being in the same room with a freshly baked anything. I can't have just one muffin. Or two. Sometimes, not even three.
I fool myself though, into thinking I can handle baking. With muffins, it usually goes like this: I'll have one at 1 p.m.. The second at 2. The third at 3. And in between those hours, I'll drink a glass of water which as we all know counteracts the sugar and lessens the cumulative calorie count.
So by the end of the day, I'd eaten 7 muffins. Seven. Count 'em. Seven cuplets of delicious banana bready nirvana.
Dan had gone out for the evening (church function, mind you…he ain't out partying like it's 1999 on a Sunday night), and when he returned, I was feeling bloated and disappointed in my food choices that day. It's not that I have to answer to Dan with food. We who are trying to slim down know the hard and fast truth here: you answer to yourself alone, and possibly the scale. Still, I like to pull the 'woe is me' routine when I feel lousy about my nutritional choices for the day. So when I gave him the report, I rounded down.
"I ate six muffins today," I said, sounding weary and beaten down, complete with a heavy sigh on the delivery.
"Sex muffins? I want some!"
Thanks, babe, for knowing the right thing to say 99 percent of the time. I'm never not going to be grateful for your sense of humor.