Seconds, Anyone?
Seconds after your scone regret. Or should I say... Scone Shame.
The thing about baked goods—duh—they’re addicting. I spent a good portion of my life proudly saying no to muffins, donuts, and definitely no scones. And now? I’m deep in a weird off-period of life, filling the emotional void with a cornucopia of bakery yum-yums in all shapes and sizes. How did I ever resist you, my little flaky friends?
This weekend we’re up the coast at my parents’ place in Sea Ranch. And to kick off the carb-loading festivities, we brought massive scones in every flavor from Arizmendi Bakery in SF. Not too sweet, perfect texture, dangerously good. Oh—and I should mention we also brought sourdough breadsticks, which we naturally polished off the night before in round one of our “carb-a-palooza.”
So you can imagine how I woke up this morning: puffy, bloated, and whispering promises to myself about getting back on track. I even did a solid 3-mile run, followed by a 2-mile dog walk. Okay, feeling better. I got this. Clean eating day, let’s go.
I came home and made my usual healthy breakfast: Greek yogurt, berries, and 20 almonds (yes, I count them). But then... they appeared. Those crumbly little castles of comfort, staring at me from the kitchen counter. Calling to me. “Just one bite,” they whispered.
Two scones later, these buttery hockey pucks of gluttony are inside me now, working their way toward my lower half—the half I fight daily to keep from sliding further south.
What can I say? I'm at a weak point in my narrative. Life feels anxious and guardrails are few. And trust me, the whole “give yourself a break” mantra wore off about six months ago. Now we’re fully in “What… the hell just happened?” mode.
But hey—there’s always a clean tomorrow, right?
Unless there's banana bread. Then all bets are off.