"Pretty soon I had eaten a dozen of these mini suckers inflicting maximum damage to my serious diet."

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[Photograph: Adam Kuban]

I committed a serious diet cardinal sin the other day. I bought a bag of mini malted milk balls that were sitting on a shelf as I waited at the Fairway supermarket checkout line. I almost reached for the bag two other times on the same line earlier in the week, but those two times I resisted.

This time the siren call of the mini-malted milk balls was just too strong. They were whispering: "Buy me, buy me, buy me. One mini-malted milk ball won't kill you. We're minis. You can handle it. "

Actually it turned out that I couldn't handle it. Not only that, but my wife and son couldn't handle it. Those mini-malted milk balls put me and my whole family in a bad, bad place.

I plucked the bag off the shelf, paid for them along with my other, healthier groceries, and began the block and a half walk to my house. At first I managed to resist tearing open the bag, but once I stepped inside our apartment I couldn't help myself.

I tore open the bag like it was a bag of relief effort rice after a natural disaster. Damn these mini-malted milk balls were good. Better than good. They were in fact seriously delicious. So seriously delicious that I had another and another and another. Pretty soon I had eaten a dozen of these mini suckers inflicting maximum damage to my serious diet. I extolled their virtues to my wife and son. They tried one and then another and then another. Half the bag was gone in a matter of seconds.

We were all powerless to resist the allure of these damn mini malted milk balls. My wife said I should ditch them. Even my son concurred. We were all powerless to resist. So I took the bag of mostly eaten mini malted milk balls and put them in the trash. But the damage had been done.

The Weigh-in

Except for the mini malted milk balls it had been a pretty good diet week. But that's like saying, "Other than that, Mrs. Lincoln, what did you think of the play?" What can you do? Just get on the scale and take my medicine. Admit to the serious eaters that I screwed up and just move on.

Here goes: 223. Same as last week, but with one more valuable lesson learned. So maybe I'm a little better off. I know one thing. Those mini malted milk balls will never darken my door again.

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