My track record with resisting temptation of the edible variety is not good. I spent one summer, after quitting smoking, systematically clearing out the local convenience store of M&N chocolate peanuts. The situation got so bad that I would get one bag of M&Ns after lunch, swearing it would last the rest of the day. But just before dinner I’d be back again, looking nonchalant, hoping that the clerks had changed shifts in the interim.
Years later I swore off sweets and desserts, but instead developed a nightly peanut butter and jelly sandwich habit.
And last winter I could not go to sleep without a dish of maple syrup yogurt for a night cap.
My newest obsession is Honey Crisp apples. I’m not going to tell you how good they are, because I don’t want you buying up the local stock.
However, I will reveal that they can only be purchased from farmers markets. Yesterday I got a bad hankering for one. Searching for a farmers market on a Tuesday, I saw one listed in Copley Square. Taking a huge detour on my bike trip from Kendall Square to Longwood, I stopped and got a bag of them. I was five minutes late to where I was going but had a tidy little stash of juicy sweet orbs tucked into my backpack and I felt smug and satsfied.
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