The Bite 007: Brownies & Betrayal

It started with a craving — and the looming reminder that I’m turning 36 this week. A simple, innocent craving. Brownies. Warm. Gooey. Fudgy. Mammal-free.

Sounds easy enough, right?

You’d think so — until you’re standing in your kitchen at 8:47 AM, elbows deep in a mixing bowl full of oat flour, flax eggs, and a butter substitute that smells like broken dreams. I was on a mission: make a dessert that wouldn’t land me in the ER. Or worse… make me miss brownies more than I already do.

The ingredient lineup was sketchy at best. Oat flour, because we were out of almond. Cocoa powder - the only dependable player in this mess. A flax egg, which sounds more like a punishment than a recipe. Chocolate chips I triple-checked for any signs of mammalian murder. And of course, that sad plant-based butter that leaves a faint taste of betrayal and sunflower. Mixing it all together felt like a combo of desperation, grief, and experimental witchcraft. But I was committed. I poured it into the pan, said a little prayer to the dessert gods, and slid it into the oven.

Thirty-five minutes later… they were brownies. Not good brownies. Not bad brownies. Not my old brownies. Just… brownies. The kind that taste like someone tried. Like a bake sale for a cause no one really understands. They were edible - but emotionally empty.

Then came the real betrayal.

At 12:06 AM, I woke up because something felt… off. You know how some people can sense ghosts? I can sense dairy. It’s my new superpower. Thanks, tick.

I opened one eye and immediately locked in on my husband — crouched over like a raccoon, spoon in hand, eating ice cream in bed.

In the dark. Next to my mammal-sensitive self. Like some sort of lactose-loving goblin.

But it gets worse.

This wasn’t a sad scoop out of a pint. No, no. This was homemade ice cream, fresh out of the basement machine — still soft, still swirled. The good kind. The kind that doesn’t judge you. The kind that whispers, “You deserve this.”

And then — the caramel. Not just any caramel. Warm. Homemade.

Drizzled in slow motion like we were in a Nicholas Sparks movie… except I was the one getting dumped. It rolled down that scoop in a golden, glossy ribbon — not too fast, not too slow — the kind of pour you only see in commercials or food porn filmed at sunrise. A molten dessert waterfall.

Like it knew it was beautiful. Like it knew I couldn’t have it.

Honestly? I’ve never wanted to throw a spoon across a room more in my life.

Yeah. He touched it. He devoured it.

In the sacred sheets. In my dairy-free zone.

He froze when I caught him. Literally mid-bite.

This is Ricky, the Raccoon. Alias: Richie. Nocturnal. Drawn to caramel. Banned from bed, indefinitely.

“I thought you were asleep,” he whispered.

Oh. Okay. So because I was unconscious, dairy crimes don’t apply? Sir… this is an Alpha-Gal household. You’re eating cow. IN MY BED.

In that moment, I wasn’t even mad about the betrayal.

I was mad about the confidence.

The boldness. The emotional and literal cold-bloodedness of it all.

Look — we all grieve the loss of real food in our own way. Mine involves over-baking brownies and loudly reminding everyone that cheese is no longer part of my personality. His apparently involves midnight dessert and zero shame.

In the end, he told me that my brownies were “actually pretty good” and he thought I could handle the ice cream because I had “found a dessert.”

I said, “So is divorce.”

(Just kidding. Sort of. He’s sleeping on the couch. That’s compromise.)

Balance.

So what did we learn here?

• Just because it’s “safe” doesn’t mean it’s good.

• You can taste resentment in a baked good.

• And never - never - trust a man with ice cream after midnight.

And yes… I’ll post the recipe tomorrow. Not because you should make it — but because you deserve to know the struggle.

Until then:

Vegan by force.

Funny by survival.

Dom

A.K.A. TickBitChick