The Bite 015: One Dangerous Lick

It started the way all of my greatest meltdowns do: with good intentions and a fridge that looked like it had finished a three-day bender.

I’d decided — because I occasionally become the kind of woman who thinks a Sharpie and a vision board can fix her life — to meal prep.

Not just “chop a few carrots” meal prep. No no.

I mean, capital M, capital P Meal Prep. Pinterest Mom Level 5000.

Linen apron, updo, smiling while zesting a lemon like I’m in an probiotic yogurt commercial.

I wanted a fridge so organized it could get a book deal.

I was out here labeling quinoa like it was vintage wine: "Earthy, nutty, pairs well with despair."

The kitchen? Looked like a produce purge.

It was giving “Farmers Market: The Reckoning" vibes.

There were oats in places oats should never be.

Tupperware stacked like I was auditioning for a reboot of “Extreme Jenga: Plant-Based Edition.”

The fridge had turned into a pressure cooker of chaos — almond yogurt hanging on for dear life between a bag of arugula and my fading optimism.

Even the blender was like, “You said this was a smoothie house. Nobody mentioned hummus.”

And then — mid chickpea chaos — it hit me:

I’m not okay.

My jaw was clenched. Meanwhile, I’m sweating like Kristin Cabot on the Coldplay kiss-cam — you know, where she full-mouths the CEO, like a deleted scene from “The Office” directed by TMZ. They're out here giving Bennifer if Bennifer were... married to other people.

Meanwhile, I am monogamous to tofu.

TOFU.

Life is not fair - it’s passive-aggressive.

So, in a moment of pure emotional clarity, I did what any overwhelmed, dairy-deprived woman would do: screamed, “We’re getting ice cream!” and fled the kitchen like it was haunted. My husband and son followed like we were in Fast & Fermented.

We go to this adorable little shop. I stare longingly at my son’s cup — buried in rainbow sprinkles — like it was the one that got away on a dating show called “Love Is Lactose.”

And then... the drip.

Down his hand. Onto mine.

And without thinking — running on pure mom autopilot and lactose amnesia — I licked it.

Just one swipe.

One lick.

One sinful, tongue-sized betrayal.

A dairy dab of doom.

The second it hit my taste buds, my immune system flipped the red switch.

DEFCON-1 Dairy.

I didn’t taste chocolate.

I tasted doom.

My body said, “That was cow. Real cow. Not coconut pretending to be cow.”

I froze.

My husband froze.

He looked at me like I’d just snorted a line of parmesan.

“Dom?” he whispered, like he was about to call 911.

And suddenly I was spiraling through the six stages of Alpha-Gal grief:

1. Panic

2. Denial ("Maybe it was oat-based... in a cream-forward way?")

3. Rage (at dairy for being delicious and manipulative).

4. EpiPen digging (why are there always 27 hair ties in my bag?)

5. Shame Spiral

6. Dramatic will-reading stare “I licked ice cream. I might die. Watch your son. And if I don’t make it… don’t remarry someone who uses the term ‘macro-balanced.’”

Spoiler: I lived.

But I did get hives, tight lungs, and a new respect for people who say, “I can’t eat that,” without needing to perform an interpretive dance to explain it.

And the wild part? My nonverbal son calmly handed me a napkin, didn’t flinch, didn’t even look up — just continued eating like, “Handle your business, lady. These sprinkles aren’t gonna eat themselves.”

Honestly… respect.

So yeah. That’s how my innocent mother-son moment turned into a full-blown soft-serve scandal. A tale of dairy, deception, and one dangerous lick.

And somewhere out there… Andy and Kristin are watching Coldplay footage, still clinging to each other like unpaid interns at an HR seminar…

And I just hope — with every ounce of my dairy-deprived soul — that their makeout…was vegan.

Because if I can’t have ice cream, they shouldn’t get whipped cream with their adultery either.

Dom

A.K.A. TickBitChick