Temptations

Contrary to what you might be thinking, this is not going to be a tribute to that one of a kind Motown singing group. No, my friends, this blog is more about that pesky snake we first met in the Garden of Eden. This will be somewhat of a confessional. Here we go. I am weak. I am powerless against my enemy. I have tried repeatedly to vanquish my tormentor; to show it who is boss. But I have failed. I have read article upon article on how to get the best of my lifelong nemesis. But I remain defeated. Last night was just the latest incident. Damn you Magic Cookie Bars.

Want to bring me to my knees? Put out a platter of cupcakes. Want to watch me lose all semblance of rational thinking? Bring out a tray of Snickerdoodles. I'm not proud. There is something that happens to me when I'm in a room populated with baked goods. It is physiological. It cannot be explained or controlled. It's like the Incredible Hulk when he gets angry.

Now I'm not talking about store bought sweets. Chips Ahoys and Oreos can reside in my pantry for weeks. Ditto for Little Debbie and Hostess. They are unwelcome party crashers in my sugar celebration. I'm also not talking about candy. For some reason, known only to my persnickety calorie-craving inner demon, I can usually take it or leave it. If I haven't baked anything for awhile, it will do in a pinch but it's not unusual for any heart-shaped boxes of chocolate lovingly bestowed upon me in February to be gathering dust in a corner in June.

But homemade baked goods? They are truly my Kryptonite. And so you might ask, as any sane person would, if I only like homemade goodies, why don't I just stop baking? You would be so wise and yet so foolish to ask such a question. Baking is cheap therapy. When I'm down, I bake. When I'm frustrated, I bake. When I'm anxious, I bake. When I'm . . . well, you get the idea. If I didn't get out my Kitchen Aid on a regular basis, who knows what I might do.

So, I guess I'll just have to suck it up and accept, for better or worse, that I'm hooked. I'm unlikely to hang up my whisk anytime soon, despite Dr. Oz's dire warnings about the dangers of belly fat. I'll bet he hasn't even tasted a Magic Cookie Bar. If he had, he would understand their power. And he would only have to be in possession of two eyes to accept that they are truly magical. How else to explain how quickly they disappear out of the pan and reappear almost instantaneously on my butt and midsection?

I wonder if the great and powerful Oz has an answer for that? Hey, maybe I should dig out those old Temptations records. Dancing around the kitchen while I bake couldn't hurt.