Should I be worried?

On Saturday, I made one final attempt to make decent bread in my bread machine. (How hard can it be, right?) Previously, it has produced "bread" that is dry and leaden, and heavy as a brick. This time it worked: the bread was light, with an even texture and flavorful with basil and oregano. It was gone by breakfast.

When my fifteen-year-old finally came downstairs, he called out, "Who ate the last of the bread you baked yesterday?"

Me: I don't know. Should I bake more?

Brian: Yes, please!

So I showed Brian how to bake some bread and the house filled with the smells of comfort food.

Also on Saturday, Emily asked if I would help her make cookies to bring to her friend who is in hospital with Crohn's. This friend is not supposed to eat cookies, but she is craving Just. One. Poor thing.

Steve: That sounds like a fun Mommy-Emily activity.

So I agreed. Fast forward to this afternoon while the bread fills the house with its yeasty goodness.

Emily: Are you ready to help me bake cookies? Last time I tried, they all burned.

Me (with a little trepidation): Sure.

So we mix up a batch of buttery, sugary chocolate-chip yumminess.

I'd like to see YOU try not to eat one of these!

Freshly baked bread? Warm-from-the-oven cookies? Hey, I am only human! Diabetes be damned, I ate a cookie [three cookies]. And I did have a slice of that bread [two slices] with butter melting into its herb-flecked sponge.

In the meantime, I can't help but wonder if my kids are trying to hasten my demise ...