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Valentine’s Day was a heartbreaker this year. Instead of whipping up a panful of decadent treats — my passion — I bought my family fudgy brownies from a cafe, knowing in my heart I would have baked better, richer ones.
But that would have meant eating more than my share, too. And I’m trying really, really hard not to do that these days. In my 50s, with two daughters — one of whom entered our lives as a newborn, through foster care, when I was 46 — I’m trying to part with sweets so that I can live a longer and healthier life. That’s the official line, anyway.
Some days, though, it’s all I can do to not get snowed under by the white stuff, to push from my mind those small-batch chocolate bars when writing deadlines loom; to swallow my pride and not bake long-ago-mastered chocolate chip cookies when asked to bring something to book club; to forgo the cocoa malt cupcake with its rippled, darkly dipped cap from the bakery in town when I stop in for coffee.
With me and sweets, you see, it’s kind of an all-or-nothing proposition, especially given how far we go back. Over the decades, they've stepped in as reliable buffers for everything from stress to sadness to too little sleep or even feelings of loss and inadequacy (who makes a better cookie: me or Neiman Marcus? Me, of course.). But it turns out that the little crushes I’ve held since kindergarten not only veiled the uneasy truths of life but also made it progressively harder to face them.
This is your heart on sugar
Last year, the American Heart Association (AHA) announced that too many sugary rewards (like pretty pink macarons) can shave years off your life. But I kind of knew that already because my apple-shaped body weighed more — and more — until, finally, I couldn’t zip my jeans and my doctor said I had type 2 diabetes. It is the kind that can be reversed, and I still believe I can do it with a combination of the pills I'm on and the right kind of diet changes. So does my doctor. (My cousin’s husband did it without meds, and he used to eat a saucer-sized doughnut daily.)
Still, the AHA has blown the lid off my cookie jar as it urges Americans to reduce the added sugar in our diets. For one thing, eating too much of it doesn’t leave enough room on our plates and in our cups for heart-healthy choices like lean proteins, veggies and low-fat milk. For another (no surprise here), too many calories from added sugar can pack on the pounds, increasing the weight our hearts are carrying around and driving up the risk of heart disease and stroke.
Newer guidelines set the daily added sugar limit at 6 teaspoons (25 grams) for women and at 9 teaspoons (36 grams) for men. Hello? Sugar is the first ingredient in that baby-size cup of Nutella & Go with Breadsticks that I just swiped from my daughter’s lunch box; it contains 23 grams. That leaves 2 grams in my bucket for the rest of the day.
Some people have an addictive nature with sugar, making it hard to stop at one serving, according to nutrition experts.
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Back when a treat was just a treat ...
I’ve traveled a long, often rocky road with sweets. My parents lived frugally with one income and four kids; they grew up in New York City when sugar was rationed, and my dad really did find an orange (how lucky!) in his Christmas sock. If we had cookies, they were store-brand graham crackers. I lived for school bake sales, s'mores around the campfire on Girl Scout trips and my friend Irene’s family snack cabinet — with pillowy Sweet Sixteen powdered doughnuts!
Other highlights included the Entenmann’s Chocolate Chip Loaf Cake my Grandma Alice sent over on Sundays; driving to Stanley’s Bake Shop in fifth grade with my mom and peering through the glass as she ordered a yellow-buttercream-rose sheet cake (a full sheet!) and miniature French pastries for a 50th anniversary party; and sprinkle cookies in a pure white box tied with red-and-white twine, a gift from Aunt Tessie.
My mom, a chemist before motherhood, made tollhouse cookies from the recipe on the bag every Christmas and stashed them in a blue-and-white tin. But oh — those Duncan Hines cake mixes, each box showing a perfect, lofty slice! When Mom hauled out the heavy Mixmaster to make one, she spooned some batter into my tiny silver pan to slide into the old white oven. When I turned 16, Mom did a pink cake with pink frosting and had my friends over.
The trouble was, while eating low sugar overall may have kept our bellies and dental bills slim, I didn’t learn how to regulate my dessert meter. It was all or nothing. Given the chance as a teen, I greedily ate three doughnuts or the whole little bakery box of cookies (alone, in my bedroom). Mom hid her fudge-dipped graham crackers (another rare treat) in the liquor cabinet and Valentine candy on top of the china cupboard so her ravenous family wouldn’t eat them all. As an adult, I was in awe when my nutritionist told me she grew up with bowls of colorfully wrapped chocolates in her home but was not tempted to indulge. What?!
Flash forward to my dream magazine writing jobs, where I made up for lost time. Feeling rebellious, I celebrated each payday by treating myself to a rich, large layered brownie at the bakery in the bus station on my way home from the office. At Woman’s Day, I learned how to write food stories, yes, but also how to master an Easter bunny cake and chocolate butter cookies. At Good Housekeeping, over 10 years as a lifestyle writer, I fell in love with most of what I wrote about — cozy sweaters, red lipsticks and, above all, cream puffs, apple bars and homemade ice cream. The photos made readers want to dive in and make a gumdrop-topped gingerbread cottage or the world’s best lemon Bundt cake — but my captions helped seal the deal.
Problem was, I was also convincing myself. Baking became a passion. And for years, it seemed pretty harmless. I was slim, and coworkers, friends and even bus drivers love homemade cookies. I'd whip up eggnog cheesecake for a party, or the chocolate, oatmeal and coconut chunkies that my friends still clamor for. Attending food shows in the magazine test kitchen was like getting a pass to heaven, especially when we previewed the December issue: rows upon rows of drop cookies, bars, cutouts and more — fairy-sugar-dusted, picture-perfect.
Soon, I was buying up all the best dessert cookbooks, from Sweety Pie's to Rose’s Christmas Cookies. You name it, if it’s a cookbook and it features desserts, I own it. Then it was ingredients, from gorgeous Valrhona cocoa to Lindt Swiss bittersweet bars. I even took orders for “Tarts by Alice Rose” for six months. But eventually, all that fine chocolate, white sugar and butter caught up with me, piling on the pounds and building a baker’s belly.
