Half Baked

There are five bakeries within walking distance of my front door. These are my neighborhood’s equivalent of crack houses.

I have never been much of a chip-man. And you can keep your greasy food like chicken wings and pizza. I want the combination of butter, sugar, eggs and flour. I pretty much like anything made with these ingredients. The place closest to my house has the best croissants I have ever had. I have never been to Paris, but these are pretty damn good. Looking into that glass case is like looking into heaven. And hell.

“Hello, my name is Rob and I am hooked on baked goods.

I can see the head-baker-guy coming over to me, cleaning a glass with a towel . . .

“OK buddy, you have enough. Why don’t you go home?”
“Come on, one more scone, half a scone. A cookie, for the road.”
“Sorry, but you have to go, I can not serve you any more.”

I would then be reduced to eating a muffin from Dunkin Donuts, the bakery world’s skid row.

While Congress rallies against internet gambling, and states place astronomical taxes on tobacco, bakeries are left unregulated. Free to fill us up with buttery goodness without having to answer anyone.

While this may be a bit sarcastic there has been a lot of talk in the last few years about how fat we Americans are getting. The movie “Super Size Me” showed what can happen to the human body when it is given nothing but garbage to live on. There was even talk of taxing junk food. All I know is that I am moving in a month and I am pretty sure there are no bakeries that close by. Hopefully, I can kick this monkey off my back.