Dear New York Times,
Damn you and your team of brilliant cookie dough warriors.
Damn you for solving the world’s most challenging puzzle…for putting the pieces together that make up such perfection.
Such perfection, which I found nearly three years ago but chose to wait to actually make until I was simultaneously PMSing and freaking out over the new puppy coming home in a matter of days. Damn you for being there in a time of such dire stress, when my will power was nowhere to be found.
Damn you for directing us to chill the dough for 24 hours, which led me to have a never ending bowl of the world’s most perfect cookie dough that called to me every. single. time. I walked passed the fridge. Your recipe claims to make 18 cookies…though I followed the directions EXACTLY I somehow only ended up with 12…
Damn you for giving me dough that was finally ready to bake the morning after I broke my toe, when I was sad and weak. Why did your recipe have to be so perfect that at 6am, unable to sleep from pain, I had to bake all the dough. Why do your cookies taste so good for breakfast? And second breakfast? And lunch? And as a snack? And as an after dinner snack? Are you surprised I didn’t actually eat them for dinner? I am.
Dear New York Times, please tell me I’m not the only person out there who consumed over two sticks of butter, over two cups of sugar and over a pound of chocolate in less than five days. Please.
And finally, why did you publish this?
PS…I threw a couple ounces of MILK chocolate in there. You don’t know me.
Then come meet me on the treadmill.