A small confession

My name is Douglas and I am an addict ("Hello Douglas"). I would like to say I have been clean for whatever amount of days seems impressive. But that would be lying. I still indulge. Daily. I am not proud of this. But, sometimes, I am content.

I have not stooped so low as to build and maintain an addiction to an illegal drug or to alcohol. No, the substance I abuse can be found almost everywhere. I succumb to its allure a couple of times a day. In my way, I am almost proud that I keep this addiction under control. It is possible that I could let this addiction completely take over my life.

I am talking about oatmeal raisin cookies, of course, the food of the gods, manna from heaven via the ovens of bakeries and homes with wonderful, happy, moms.

I don't know how it started, I suppose no addict does. Somewhere in my youth, I am sure. Just a young boy with no sense of right and wrong, I am handed a cookie, an oatmeal raisin cookie. I ate it, of course. What would you do? I am not addicted to oatmeal, or to raisins. I don't recall "jonesing" for a bowl of lumpy oatmeal (which as always how it was served in my childhood homes) or demanding Mom buy all the boxes of raisins she could fit in the shopping cart. But put them together, add a little molasses and who knows what else and heat it in the oven until its almost crisp but still has a hint of gooeyness, still a little soft, and the sweat will start oozing from my pores, my mouth strangely dry and wet at the same time. I will hover by the cookie sheet until the wafers of delight are cool enough to not burn my tongue (overly much).

They are the perfect food. Nutrition, fiber, and decadent indulgence all in a compact, easily consumed, form. And they border on being healthy, on being "good for you."
Nothing else, no other cookie, no other food, so captures my attention.

And the only side effect seems to be an advantage as I age... the cookies keep me, uh, regular.