In a significantly uncharacteristic action, my wife did something nice. That alone would be enough, but even more--she baked. A co-worker is at home recovering from a particularly nasty surgery. This co-worker expressed a particular love of a (semi-) home-made nutroll my wife made for a covered dish. My wife--in what I can only call a moment of personal weakness--made a batch of these tasty treats and mailed them to her. I am proud.
But of course, the story doesn't end there. I said she made a batch, and that is not entirely accurate. She made a half-batch. But, she made a whole batch of the filling. So tonight, she made the other half-batch. The boys loved them, they were a special treat. I loved them, they are a reminder of very fond childhood memories.
I loved them, one after another, after another. I loved six of them. I only stopped because I knew I had to save some for the boys, for tomorrow evening's dessert.
Even as I type this, I want another....just one more. Sugary, flaky, nutty goodness. Even though my stomach is hurting, even though I know I need to loose weight, even though I am currently ahead in "the challenge," even though I've already set my alarm to wake up at 5:30 to exercise. I want another, and I want it in a very bad way.
I love my wife, and I love her nutrolls--but one of them has to go.
I'll miss her.
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