Butter Kek

There's something I've been meaning to tell you. Actually, that's a lie. I've been meaning to never tell you or anyone, ever. I've been meaning to go to my grave with it. I've been hoarding. I do that sometimes, and it's nothing I'm proud of. Umpteen years ago I tried to hoard Pioneer Woman. I wanted to keep her all to myself.

We all know how that turned out.

So, here I am, in a falling-down bun, hopped up on Dr. Pepper and the tucked-in reminder that my people are the very best kind, they make me better, their kindness renders me speechless. It's a pleasure to iron their seam allowances hems of whatever they call them.

I guess I'd like to honor this feeling by coming clean on my secret.

It has to do with dark chocolate and awesomeness.

I know I caused a stir with the pumpkin spice english muffins (I weep for them in January) but this is year-round bliss. It's everyday-rotation trouble. It's pretty enough to serve to the Duchess of Cambridge. It's cheap enough to stockpile.
 

 Behold.

They bring me crumbly tidings of delicious joy.

 

They could pretty much write their own title, but their given name is "Butter Keks".
Who knows why? Not me, that's who. What's a "kek"? Is it German? Because I feel like it could be. I would ask Cory, but all he remembers from HS German class is "I am tired" and numbers 1-10.

Regardless, I'm a girl who can really get behind a ridiculous name. So I first introduced them to my kids as "Butter Kek" and that's all they know. They think it's normal.

It's very possible that you will catch one of them whining on an otherwise peaceable afternoon, "I want Butter Kek!" waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!

They do this in public sometimes and we get, you know, looks.  And I get their angst. I really do.

There's a Dutch windmill, the Eiffel Tower and a large ferris wheel, presumably the fancy one that Emily and Jef kissed on and not the one from the Elkhart County 4-H Fair.

I cannot possibly make you understand the beauty of Butter Kek. It's also available in milk chocolate, which is pretty dumb.  (Forget you even heard that.)

The chocolate is so perfectly dark, so beautifully dipped to the ideal thickness. The cookie is so superbly toothsome.

What you have here is a combo almost as harmonious as the chip and the salsa.

You can get your own for $1.69 a box at your local Aldi. Do you have an Aldi? Because if not, this is the meanest, nastiest post I have ever written. I can't imagine your pain.

So heck, leave me a comment and I'll pick two Butter Kek'ers. We'll crown you the Duchesses of Grand Luckiness and toast you with teacups, pinkies delightfully extended, of course.

But don't come crying to me when you're hooked on the junk.