I made cookies yesterday—delicious cookies that triggered Miles to fall even deeper in love with me the first time that I made them for him. My mom used to make them sporadically on weekends, filling the kitchen with divine aromas and begging children. Sour Cream Cookies. Cream Cheese Frosting. Pure. Rapture.

You're all wondering why—WHY IN HEAVEN'S NAME!?—I would bake the icon of all that is deliciousness while I'm recovering from that nasty bout of holiday gluttony, aren't you? Well, for many reasons, naturally. I rarely do things without thinking them to an early grave.

Firstly, there's the whole "I like baking" thing...highly inconvenient in times of calorie-counting, but pertinent nonetheless. Yesterday, I was struck with a case of the chills. Being in the Frozen Tundra in January didn't help matters, really. A kitchen warmed by a 375° oven seemed toasty and absolutely lovely.

Also, I have no appetite for sweets. I have no appetite for anything of scrumptiousness. Yes, this ruddy virus has ruined me, and all that I am. Thus, t'was the ideal—Ideal, I say!—time for me to make the cookie that every other cookie wishes he could be.

Lastly, and perhaps most appropriately, my cookie preparation of yesterday follows the weight loss principle wherein you stimulate the weight gain of those in company so as to heighten the evidence of your progress. Don't look at me that way—every little bit helps.

Go ahead: DROOL.