Chocolate.
Rich, gooey, melty, oozing, smooth, handsome, delicious chocolate.
Give me a fruit crumble with a scoop of vanilla bean ice cream any day.
No! Don’t switch pages! Not just yet… I mean, just because I’m not a devout chocoholic doesn’t mean I don’t like the occasional nibble or two. Sometimes even three! It’s just… chocolate is so… overwhelming.
And I am easily overwhelmed.
The weather, so promising in October, has faded to a dull damp grey that threatens to overthrow my long-anticipated plans for a Summer spent burning on the beach before flinging myself into cool blue water.
Darn it.
It was especially ominous the day I iced these cookies.
Imagine me, alone in my kitchen at half past eight on a Friday night with the girls coming over for lunch the next day.
The ribs were rubbed and waiting for a beer bath. The table was set.
And there was nothing on the menu for dessert. Nothing. For. Dessert.
(Ok, so there were the cookies I’d made earlier and a couple of punnets of cherries, but please. That was not going to do. Especially for an Argentinian barbecue themed Christmas feast.)
It’s not even December yet and here I am busting out the Christmas baking.
If it helps at all, I haven’t so much as started my Christmas shopping and (horror!) have absolutely no idea what dessert I’ll be bringing to my annual high-school-reunion-over-”Christmas”-lunch that’s planned for this Saturday.
Though I suppose, if worse comes to worst, I can just feed them cookies…
I was going so well for a moment there, wasn’t I? Bright and happy. Perky, even.
And then, with no explanation at all, I crashed. Spent three days incapacitated. In bed and facing a wall of exhaustion and anxiety coupled with a rather perplexing case of being totally unable to stand upright for more than a couple of minutes without falling over.
It was bizarre I tell you. More so because, after doing as many tests as a lab rodent, nothing was wrong with me.
Well, except for those cuh-razy symptoms.
