There is only one reason I eat bagels: cream cheese. If you leave me alone with cream cheese, there’s a high probability that you’ll come back to find me eating it like it’s a cup of Yoplait freaking Light. For instance, tonight the cream cheese in our fridge became mine and only mine because B. caught me sticking my finger in it. Little does he know, I’ve been eating it straight out of the tub for the last three days. I would probably dispense with the bagel altogether and just eat the cream cheese if I thought I wouldn’t mind being 300 pounds. Eating the bagel, ironically, is my version of self-control.

Actual question from my lips: “Do you think this would go with tortilla chips?”

Why am I telling you this? I have a story. 

Not too long ago, I did something so disgraceful that I swore I wasn’t going to tell anyone about it. I would take my secret, and my shame, to my grave, and no one would ever have to know. Naturally, I lasted about 8 hours before I shamefacedly told B. my secret, and now I’m telling you. One wintry morning, I was craving an old favorite: cinnamon toast. I did my standard cinnamon toast routine of mixing cinnamon and sugar into (unmelted!) butter and spreading it on my toast. Pretty normal, I think. But, there was left over cinnamon-y, sugary, buttery goodness. You know where this is going. I ate it. I ate a spoonful of butter, cinnamon, and sugar.

And it was so good.