Cobbler is the Devil

Before I got married, I threw parties at least three times per year. Big parties with themes and fun food. We registered for tons of cool serving ware because I just assumed that this level of partying would continue after we were married. Hey, we had twice the friends! Then we moved from Ginormousville to Small Town. It took years for me to make enough friends to even consider a party. So this week, for the first time in the longest (maybe ever in our marriage), we had people over for dinner. It was a casual grilling out party where everyone brought something to throw on the grill and a side to share.

I had such good intentions when I went to the grocery store. I was going to make a delicious Caprese Salad. Light! Yummy! But the road to hell is paved with BBQ potato chips, cobbler and margaritas. My inner (trailer park) Martha Stewart wouldn't allow me to only provide a salad. What if everyone brings salad? What if the pot-luck stuff was too exotic for my picky husband? So I went hog wild at the MegaMart. I just couldn't help myself. I got the afore mentioned chips and the stuff to make both margaritas and a blackberry peach cobbler - with ice cream, of course.

The party was big fun. We totally enjoyed hanging out with a bunch of guys T works with and their families. We indulged in meat cooked with fire, fabulous sides and strawberry margaritas. (This is the first time in four years that I am not pregnant or nursing. Margaritas! Squee!) We finished off with the cobbler. So all's well with party eating. I had budgeted points for the party and didn't lose my head entirely in the face of so many good things to eat. I had been to the gym, gone grocery shopping, cleaned the pool and cleaned the house that day, so I had racked up enough activity points to eat with out guilt.

Then everyone went home and left me with half of a cobbler. It is an evil cobbler. It whispers to me sweetly every time I walk by the fridge. "Oh, Rae Aaah-nnn! Rae Aaaaah-nnn! Eat me, eat me! Eat. me." I made the dang thing, so I know full well that it has an entire stick of butter in it. I'm guessing that if I give in to my baser impulses and snarf the whole thing down in a buttery, crumbly, gooey fit of excess that the total number of butter sticks I have shed would decrease exponentially. Darn. I might as well smear its berry goodness right on my butt.

And while that idea might have some appeal for T, I think I will give it a pass. As a matter of fact, the mental picture it generates has put me right off cobbler. For now. Until the next time I walk by the fridge.