Why Cookies are Dangerous if You Live Alone

I quite like living alone. My current place is the first one I’ve ever had all to myself and even after a year and a half, I’m still pretty happy being a solo resident.

I do dishes when I feel like it, play bad music without fear of judgement, and spend as long in the bath as I want. In summer it’s especially good, because I can be naked all the time. 

However, come winter, I admit a tiny part of me misses having housemates. I spend more time at home, it’s too damn cold to be naked and I drink so much tea that I have to do dishes regularly anyway or I run out of mugs.

And this week, after a year and a half,  I discovered the worst part of living alone:

The cookies.

When I was a kid, I used to bake cookies with my Mum and half the fun of it was swiping batter from the bowl when she wasn’t looking.

When I got caught, and had my knuckles rapped with the wooden spoon, I used to swear that when I was a grown up, I would make cookie batter, and eat all of it. So ha!

Anyway, on Monday after school I had a sudden (cold inspired) urge to make cookies.

“Aha!” I thought. “Cookies and a cup of tea will be just the thing for this weather!”

A detour via the supermarket to buy butter and flour, and a break to watch an episode of Walking Dead (I LOVE that show) and the cookie making began.

I creamed the butter and sugar, sampled just a little, added the cinnamon, sampled a little more, sifted in the flour, sampled quite a lot more, put the first batch in the oven, sampled a little more and realised fatal error number one.

Because I only have a tiny toaster oven, I could only bake four cookies at a time. That meant the rest of the dough was just sitting on the bench, looking at me.

I didn’t go as far as actually taking the bowl with me while I watched more Walking Dead, but I definitely took a spoon.

The first batch was a disaster. Fatal error number two, you could say. They just melted and spread all over the tray.

So I ate batch one with a spoon, added more flour to the mix, sampled it, and tried again.

Batch two produced one cookie-like object, but the rest had to be, um, disposed of.

Add more flour, sample mixture, try again.

Batches three and four were kind of like a success! The cookies were very thin and flat, but were identifiably cookies, so I only ate one of them.

By batches five and six I was feeling pretty weird, so all of those cookies made it as far as the Tupperware.

“Why,” I wondered, licking the mixing spoon and wincing slightly, “Is no one stopping me?”

It was at that point I realised that the worst part of living alone is that there is no one to supervise my cookie batter consumption.

I never feel scared, lonely or sad living alone, but that day, I felt pretty unwell.

I cleaned up most of the mess I’d made, put the lid firmly on the Tupperware, and dragged myself into bed, cursing the deliciousness of the cookie dough.

It wasn’t until the next morning that I realised fatal error number three:

There are still cookies in the house.

Yes, I have had cookies for breakfast two days in a row, and for dinner last night.

No, I don’t recommend it.

No, they aren’t finished yet so yes, I will be eating them again tonight.

I think I need a housemate.





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