Hello all,
It’s been forever since I’ve written anything on this blog.
But today, I stumbled upon something so incredibly decadent, that I decided to end my journalistic exile….if only for today…..by sharing with you a new, but regrettable appreciation for sweet stuff.
Up until quite recently, I was a savory loving broad. If I ever had anything sweet, it was a Coke and nothing else. But here I am four years into crone status, and chocolate has become a lusty pursuit. Thanks estrogen declination.
So today, while waiting for an appointment with a repair tech at a local Apple store, I happened by a Godiva boutique. Nice chocolates, right? But not my cup of tea. So, I have always been able walk by these ass expansion projects with no problem, but this afternoon, I was lured inside by the muse, Cacoacophony.
She’s the pudgy one with blood glucose issues.
I walked in the store, took a look around the place, and my eyes went straight to the chocolate dipped macaroon packages displayed on shelves, but arranged to say in the most subliminal ways, Eat me!”
I did.
I bought a four pack (around 20 bucks or so) knowing full well of the impending punishment. I took one bite and my jeans and I both cried simultaneously.
We’re talking about a nice sized truffle almost as big as my palm. Calorically?? About 330 calories packed inside a rich, dense, not overwhelmingly sweet, cake-like macaroon, not “bonbonish” at all, yet still quite moist. They’re all hand dipped in your choice of milk, white or dark chocolate. I have no idea if they’re kosher or gluten free. I couldn’t read the label after shredding the package open with my teeth and at least four toes.
Make no mistake, these are a guilty pleasure at 330 calories per macaroon. I found this out after the fact and immediately vowed I would eat only a half each day, which would allow me to spread out my joy throughout the week.
That didn’t happen.
One half lead to three quarters ,which lead to one whole macaroon which in turn, forced me to eat a second one. Yes, forced,. Gum paste gunpoint. I was in such chocolate denial, exacerbated by sugar rush that would gack out a haller monkey, i I found myself cutting up number three in slices.
Seriously. As if THAT would make a difference. Whether you cut a 16 inch pizza in four slices or eight, it’s still a 16 inch pizza.
But mind you, this minor math lesson could necessitate the need for a meth session. One bite and you will happily bloat up and feel generally guilty and slovenly for hours. These are hubris filled bad boys and damn good. If they were humans, they’d be coconut narcissists.
All I know is that after one bite I wanted to light a cigarette, change the sheets and take a nap.
Keep in mind this is coming from a non-sleeping, middle- aged woman, teetering on frigidity, who has never like sweets and never smoked.
