It is the Monday after Easter and I have a belly ache. No, it is not surprising…I shouldn’t even be close to surprised that my stomach is totally unsure how to process what I shoveled into it yesterday to celebrate breaking my Lenten sacrifice. I mean, after 40 days, it has forgotten what to do with baked goods. Or MAYBE it never really knew what to do with the whole lot of it in the first place? After all, it is a rare day that begins with probably ten munchkins (just chocolate and glazed and the most fabulous SPRINKLED “spring” ones…my goodness they were good), moves on to a chocolate croissant, a chocolate egg or two, and wraps up around lunchtime with two Dulce de Leche Duos from the freezer (yeah, I’ll be makin those again) and some cookie dough (more on that part below). And then I had a pear. Because I felt bad.
So while I baked, I pondered going to see the Spinning Witch (my spin class teacher). To go or not to go. And then the smell started wafting out of the kitchen and I decided there was a supremely good chance I may eat half of what went in there. So after I took it out, off I went. (Side note here…sweating through 75 minutes of spin with a stomach full of carbs and sugar is not the wisest thing in the world.) In the end, I felt better for it. But still. UGH.
I couldn’t decide what to actually make for my first official dessert after 40 days (what? the donuts and chocolate didn’t count…don’t judge me). I was craving cookies, but sort of wanted pie, and really wanted to involve ice cream. What could be more perfect than a Toll House Pie? Gooey, chocolately yumminess dumped right into a buttery pie shell. Sigh.
It was delish. And promptly whisked into work so that I didn’t feel compelled to eat it for dinner this evening. The recipe is here, right from the source.