There are a few dessert items I do my best not to buy. It’s not because I don’t like them—quite the opposite—I will not rest until there are no detectable crumbs left inside or outside the packaging. I can compare the madness only to that described in Poe’s “The Tell-Tale Heart.” I know that’s hella dramatic, but I kid you not. I try distracting myself with television, reading, or conversation, but the thoughts won’t stop haunting me day and night. Eat me. Just one more piece. I’m still here, waiting for you. Still heeerrreeee. The words continue thumping through the floorboards of my mind until I can no longer endure the madness.

Let me tell you of one such instance involving a container of Trader Joe’s Dark Chocolate Mint Creams. On a whim, I dropped the delicious treats into my shopping cart. Although I piled other groceries on top of the package, the corner of the lid kept poking through, its shiny plastic corner taunting and distracting me. Shortly after arriving home (and before I put away the other groceries—even the frozen ones), I popped the lid and was hypnotized by the minty-ness wafting into my nostrils, hijacking my olfactory receptors. I ate one, then two, then three. Damn that Trader Joe and his irresistible confections!. I must stop. I cannot eat another. I must save me from myself, but how? I immediately wrapped the container in duct tape and buried it behind boxes and cans on a pantry shelf and continued unloading my purchases. I’m still here, hiding behind the couscous. Eat me. Eat meeee.

My husband appeared to help me put away the groceries and I tried to act calmly, but the thoughts kept drumming in my head. He asked if I was okay. “Of course I’m okay!,” I answered quickly and began pacing back and forth in front of the pantry door. He continued talking pleasantly, but I didn’t absorb a single word he said. He must hear it, right? The minty teasing from the pantry? I could take it no longer! I cleared the pantry shelf and snatched the cream mints, showing him the duct-taped package! “Look what I’ve done!”

He watched curiously (though not surprisingly) as I attempted to tear through the duct tape with my incisors. He reluctantly handed me kitchen shears and I proceeded to free the little creams from their plastic prison. My eager raccoon-like hands dug in, popping mint after glorious mint into my mouth, hoping there were no bits of duct tape stuck in my teeth.

Why can’t this happen with broccoli?