Three days before Thanksgiving, my wife, Peggy, did what she does best—she turned our kitchen into a magical bakery.
New pumpkin spice cookies.
Those jelly-filled cookies she’s famous for.
And those little round balls of goodness. (Are they still called cookies? Whatever they are, they’re dangerously delicious.)
She even whipped up a homemade trail mix with roasted nuts, raisins, and M&M’s.
Now, here’s the thing. I know better.
I’ve been living my best life eating only meat, eggs, and butter for years now.
It’s how I stay strong, sharp, and happy.
But something about those cookies caught me off guard.
I started picking.
A bite here, a nibble there.
Before I realized it, I wasn’t just sampling—I was in a full-blown feeding frenzy.
And you know what? I paid the price.
The next day, I wasn’t myself.
My mood took a nosedive.
I felt sluggish, unmotivated, and a little down.
Instead of soaking up the joy of my family around the table, I just… existed.
I couldn’t figure out why I felt so off.
I…
