Get thee behind me, temptation.
I’d seen this is the store and promptly averted my eyes. Some things you just don’t need to know about, you know? I don’t need cookie dough butter in my house. But I kept running into it in the aisles. They made it really hard to avoid.
It’s like the proverbial bad boy. You know he’s trouble. You know his intentions aren’t honorable, and you know the whole thing is going to end in tears. And every time you look up, there he is.
So obviously you go there. And when they offered a taste at the sample kiosk, of course I agreed.
YES it’s good. Obviously it’s good. It’s got that thick, doughy texture and it’s not too sweet and it’s got a little kick of cinnamon going on in there, damnit. Delicious. Dangerous. Absolutely not healthy for you in any way. Is there any reason to even have a jar of this sitting around, except to grab a spoon and start the inevitable process of eating it straight out of the jar?
It’s the grocery product equivalent of an AK-47. You’ve got butter and you’ve got jam, marmalade and Nutella. You don’t need cookie butter. Nobody needs cookie butter.
It’s not so much me I’m worried about. It’s the Drama Teen. She-who-eats-frosting-out-of-the-can and puts sugar on her Frosted Flakes.
It does no good to yell at her, or lecture her on the dangers of an all-sugar diet. It has no effect on her, my volume nor the corn syrup. She is slender and has flawless skin and simply waits for me to pause in my lecture before continuing on up the stairs to her room with said can of frosting.
And what can I say because I remember I did the exact same thing at her age. Only it was a brick of cream cheese mixed with a cup of sugar and dyed blue. Or green. Or red, depending on my mood at the time.
And I grew out of it. I can only stand one little teaspoon of cookie butter before I start feeling pre-diabetic.
This is Drama Teen crack. Wait until she tastes this. I’m almost interested in watching the revelation cross her face so I can describe it as a writing exercise. I’m a terrible mother for even bringing this home.
The boy tasted the cookie butter this morning and nodded grimly. He knows his sister. “Yeah, maybe you’d better get two jars; one for her and one we can hide, for us.”
Well, I accept my fate. Stay tuned.
And damn you, Trader Joe’s!