I’m a sucker for a coworker selling gourmet cookie dough for her kid. And I typically hold strong to a personal belief that making actual cookies is a tragic waste of perfectly good cookie dough. But in an effort to someday see the fruits of all the labor I’m putting in at the gym, I made an exception.
Until last night, there were two tubs of cookie dough taunting me from the bottom shelf of the fridge. Three pounds each. Yes, friends, six pounds of glorious cookie dough — all beautifully ribboned with peanut butter — and I decided to go and waste it by putting it in the oven.
It goes without saying that every single one of these lovelies had to exit the premises. Merry early Christmas, Saatchi coworkers!
Ok, so I might have tasted one of these protein cookies. Just to make sure they weren’t gross.
And who knew making cookies would be that much more fun with the help of my own personal cookie monster?
He wouldn’t go near the oven. Hot, mama. Hot! I cracked the door a little and offered him a peek. But he just looked at me like I was nuts. And stayed glued to his stool, from which he could appropriately monitor the cookie operation. What? You wear pants when you make cookies?
After he came to the conclusion he wouldn’t be enjoying a Chocolate Peanut Butter Chip cookie right before bedtime, he gave up and bolted for the den so he could curl up with his Paw and execute The Football Trance.
Om nom nom nom.