There are things in life that scare me. Like, for instance, when you’re sitting in a doctor’s office for a regular checkup and you’re asked to remove all of your clothes, but remember you wore your unforgivably ugly underwear because it’s laundry day, and you make a panicked mental reminder to find a new doctor because, clearly, you can’t face this one again.

But also diet things. Like, any and all diet things.  I think we can thank the ’80s for most things “diet” and “lite”, as well as for acid wash denim and the surge of needlessly long guitar solos that make most songs too awkward for karaoke.

My defenses against these fears are, first, keep a healthy stock of doctor-friendly underwear, and second, combat the diet fad by making my junk food the way the food gods intended: full fat, full flavor, no shame.

Like this ridiculous wheat-, dairy-, egg-, gluten-, and sugar-free chocolate cream pie, for instance:

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When I made my foray into this gluten-free adventure of mine a couple months back (albeit with a few warranted cheat days) I wasn’t sure I’d ever again know the joy of burning my lips on a scorching-hot, gooey, soft and chewy chocolate chip cookie. I’d conceded to eating cookies that would make me wish the apocalypse were real. But much like when I was five and assumed Mother Theresa was a portly black woman (and also that her name was “Mother Catreesa”) I was so very wrong!

BEHOLD. A gluten-free chocolate chip cookie that looks, feels and tastes like a REAL CHOCOLATE CHIP COOKIE. None of this crumbly, dry, flavorless nonsense. I would take this cookie to bed and call it the next morning.

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I know what you’re thinking. I’ve been silent for a month and I come to you with rabbit food? Well hear me out, I promise it’ll be worth it. This side of the blogosphere has been dark for the last month, because it’s been a pretty dark time for me. See, my stomach and I are having issues. The issue being that my stomach is an asshole.

We’ve been arguing for years, and in its seething resentment toward me, I’ve found that breads and pastas weigh like a ton in my stomach and the aftermath of eating chocolate is like a dull kick to the vagina. And if my stomach were a man I WOULD FIGHT IT.

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There, in a town, that just might be yours

were gruesome displays of violent gore.

Of scenes very bloody and horrors untold

where bodies-turned-dishes were eaten and sold.

Dozens went missing, the young and the old,

and none of them knew how their end would unfold:

The town’s chef would claim a victim or two

and put them in dishes that gained rave reviews.

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Basil is usually treated as a two dimensional commodity, which is upsetting for our sensitive friend. It’s the shining star in pesto, the uniting factor in the group of pine nuts and Parmigiano, and trying to make caprese without basil is trying to conduct a chorus without harmony. It’s like John Daker singing “Amore.”  It just doesn’t work, does it?

Still, basil is pretty under appreciated for what it really brings to the table. It’s asked to creep behind the veil of the savory, only being offered a supportive role when it was born to lead. If you look at what basil lends to the flavor of any particular dish, it becomes glaringly obvious how underused it is.

Sweets, man. Basil is sweet, and while its herbal sister, mint, has found glory in ice cream, candy and other sugary applications, basil is left wading in a murky red puddle of marinara and despair, seething. Basil gets no respect. But nobody puts basil in the corner. Nobody.

Recently I did a guest post for Stark Bros on Blueberry Basil Meyer Lemonade (Shout out to me!), but thought, why not chocolate? So I put it in this chocolate cake. That’s…actually the whole story. It’s anticlimactic, but what do you want from me?

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