I'm a vanilla girl. I take after my dad like that.
We don't frown upon chocolate. Not by any means. But ask us to pick between the two, and vanilla's the front-runner by a mile.
(I could spend hours baking a beautiful, mouth-watering, fancy pants dessert - but nothing makes Van's eyes light up like a simple plate full of buttery yellow cake, a slowly-melting slab of sweet cream butter perched atop).
So you understand, the vanilla girl that I am, being struck by an insatiable need for chocolate at 11 PM Monday night was... odd. Not only odd, but pesky. Riveted by Real Housewives of New Jersey - go ahead, judge freely - I couldn't be bothered to budge from my couch.
But that chocolate is a persistent bugger. And my mind kept drifting to the box of Triple Fudge Betty Crocker in the pantry. What chocolatey concoction could I whip up during commercial break? Something semi-guiltless. One that won't take refuge on my thighs at the very least...
(Cue the lightbulb ding in my brain).
Pretty sure the recipe is an old Weight Watchers trick, but I'll forever attribute it to the momma of one of my best high school friends (thank you, Mrs. Hollas!) who introduced me to...