Nutella is a problem. Sure, it’s creamy and fucking delicious, but it is just way too accessible. It’s the lazy person’s dream come true when it comes to instant sugar gratification. Open jar. Insert spoon. Emerge minutes later in a sweet stupor – with a gross, waxy taste in your mouth.
Nutella, I can’t quit you. Although once I did. I put a ban on Nutella (got legitimately pissed at my husband when he thought I was kidding and brought home a family-sized jar), and after two weeks of Nutella abstinence, my cravings legitimately diminished. Apparently two weeks is the average amount of time needed to kick an addiction. Heroin, crystal meth, Nutella. All the same really.
When I was younger and less intelligent, I blissed out in my ignorance of sugar’s nasty conversion into fat, and regularly ate strawberries and Nutella for the sake of protein. Like, “I’m feeling a little low-energy – I need a protein boost. Grilled chicken? Tuna? Eggs? No. Let’s go with the jar of dessert disguised as a critical part of a healthy, well-balanced breakfast.” What are we talking here? 2 grams, 3 grams of protein? But yeah, I’m just forcing this glob of chocolate down because I need my daily allotment of protein. Uh-huh.
I’ve accepted that Nutella is a treat (as opposed to a real power player in the food pyramid), but when it comes to everyone’s favorite sugary “condiment,” I still fall prey to another form of self-deception. Every time I sidle up to the cupboard that houses the Nutella, I tell myself for the umpteenth time that I just need a little taste to curb my craving, just a wee dip of the ol’ spoon, and then I’ll pop the seemingly innocuous little jar back into the cupboard and walk away. To be clear, I have NEVER eaten just one spoonful of Nutella in my entire life.
It’s quite different from committing to a candy bar or a cookie. Who takes one bite of a cookie? And who crosses the line of candy-wrapper-breaking only for a single bite? There’s really more dignity in just committing to a full donut or piece of cake, but fooling myself into thinking that a mere dip into the Nutella jar will be possible, or even adequately satisfying, is a joke. A sad, deluded joke. Nutella always makes me out to be a liar.
For these reasons, and for some darker, deeply subconscious ones that my therapist will need to tease out, the Nutella ban is still in affect. 217 (or some other equally arbitrary number) days sober, and going strong.
In other news, our frequently replenished supply of peanut M&Ms (originally introduced as a potty-training bribe for our toddler) is becoming troublesome.
Sara is a freelance writer based in Portsmouth, New Hampshire. She has written for Bust, Huffington Post, Scary Mommy, and Bustle. She blogs about children, pretty wallpaper, IPA, and friendship here. You can also check her out on Instagram and Twitter.