Bowl of Shame is my favorite snack when I crave something sweet, which is really only when I am . . . let’s see, how shall i put this so as not to offend the delicate sensibilities of Natalie’s husband? Let’s try, “Being visited.” Just like little aliens came down and possessed my body and made me eat it, which of course absolves me of the shame. But the shame, oh the shame! That is the part that tastes so good. I am sure of it.
Bowl of Shame
Ingredients
- One child-size individual vanilla chocolate swirl ice cream cup
- Two Pop-Tarts (I prefer iced brown sugar and cinnamon, but I know this could create much dissension in the ranks, so you could totally substitute cherry or strawberry, both of which would go great with the vanilla strawberry swirl ice cream cup, if you feel like you need more fruits in your diet.)
- Peanut Butter (Crunchy is more fun)
- Lite Cool Whip (Because you are, like, totally diet-conscious)
- Honey
Directions
- Open indy ice cream, turn over upside down and squeeze gently out of plastic cup into soup or salad bowl. (Presentation is everything, people! Extra points if you have a sundae dish!)
- Break each Pop Tart in half and stick all four halves at an angle, so that they lean against the sides of the bowl, creating awesome ramps of brown sugar icing goodness sloping down to ice cream love.
- Take one heaping scoop of peanut butter (i use a big-ass serving spoon to measure out the correct amount) and dump it onto the ice cream. Lick spoon clean, or let dog do it for you.
- Heap one spoon of Cool Whip on top of that, so that you create a swaying, leaning tower of diabetic coma proportions.
- Squeeze a ton of honey all over it (lady-like drizzling is for pussies), making sure honey is running down pop-tart sides to form a golden pool around the peanut butter and ice cream.
- Sit in front of tv while watching The Hills, ANTM, or Real World Road Rules Challenge.
- Sink into a physically-satisfying, but mentally degrading heap of self loathing.
- Feed the children the remaining two Pop Tarts the following morning, despite your usual rule of “no junk,” just to get the rest of them out of the house, and then run 3.5 miles in futile attempt to keep mountains of sugary love off of your thighs.
