The Mean Bread Making Boy

I had eaten wisely, brushed my teeth, and even flossed. (Extra points and guilt-free good night's sleep for that!) I was restful in my silky summer nightgown, innocently writing in my journal, when I smelled a smell. A wondrously terrible smell.
Fresh baked bread.
I knew my 18-year-old was up to delicious no good when he asked me where the dough hook was. But I had every intention of being fast asleep before the irresistible odor of fresh baked bread filled my head.
It's not that I don't like bread, I do, but not at 9:00 p.m. at night when I'm trying to lose a few pounds.
But here I was, still awake, and smelling that awfully good smell.
Then I heard a noise. I turned and saw my two teenage boys standing in the doorway, chewing on warm bread with evil grins on their faces, wafting their hands over the steaming slices to make me more fully aware of the tempting aroma.
Bag the diet! I rushed downstairs and cut a slice of bread, and since man does not live by bread alone, I melted butter and honey on its top and ate it.
I can just wear looser clothes.
Thanks, Zack.