The Cookies Are Too Damn Large

A terrified young boy dashes frantically down the middle of the street. A woman shrieks and faints. The town loudmouth pauses mid-sprint, cups his hands, and screams to warn confused passersby. "Run for your lives!" he bellows. "That's the biggest goddamn cookie I've ever seen!"

This is how I imagine the flagship opening of Crumbl Cookies, a fast-growing chain that peddles chocolate chip cookies the size of my face. Spreading alongside Crumbl is Levain Bakery, a buzzy landmark bakery slated to open a new location near The Takeout's Chicago headquarters. These cookie outposts have one thing in common: they sell gigantic cookies. Cookies that I, a woman with unstable blood sugar, simply cannot abide. Simply put, the cookies are too damn large.

Listen: there's nothing wrong with a giant cookie. Cookies, as a concept, are wonderful, and both Levain and Crumbl make truly bitchin' cookies. Real quick, Google "Levain cookies" and look at those gorgeous gooey centers. They're beautiful! They're art! Same goes for Crumbl, where you can get a classic pink sugar cookie that'll make you see God.

The problem is that both Levain and Crumbl make cookies roughly the size of a wagon wheel. These cookies aren't just shocking in terms of circumference; they're also incredibly thick. Thicker than seems scientifically advisable. Thus, a single one of these cookies will leave you keeled over, heading straight into a midday slumber.

That's not necessarily a bad thing if you've prepared for cookie catatonia. Say you've set aside a Friday night. The work week is over, and there's zero chance that any of your friends will call on you for a nightcap. This is the ideal scenario for a Levain or Crumbl (or any other big-ass cookie) adventure. Turn on the new horny Ben Affleck movie—it's bad—and tuck in. You'll be asleep by the second act.

But when I think of cookies, I think of snacking. I think of a spontaneous little treat. If I duck into a bakery at 2 p.m. on a Tuesday, I want something that'll awaken my taste buds and leave me smiling breezily. If I cut my losses and go with a giant cookie, I'll have to take a nap in my office's unoccupied podcast recording studio. And that will be a major blow to my professional dignity.

The only good use case for one of these cookies? Sharing. Eating half of a Crumbl or Levain cookie strikes the perfect balance. I suppose that's a strong case for the brands—they bring people together. Unfortunately, you'll have to grapple with the anxiety-inducing Cookie Division Protocol, an attempt to ensure that each party gets the exact same amount of cookie with roughly equivalent chocolate chips or other mix-ins in each half. I've seen relationships shattered over far less.

And before you tell me that you could simply break your own cookie in half and save the rest for tomorrow, let me say this: freshness is key with these things. A soft, fresh cookie the size of a frisbee is a delicious, albeit gargantuan, indulgence. A stale one tastes, well, more like an actual frisbee.

With this, I'd like to call for an end to the ever-expanding cookie universe. What's next? Single-serve deep dish 10" skillet cookies? You think my blood sugar's unstable now? Hit me with a skillet cookie and watch me accidentally kill a guy.