When we run out of them upstairs, I've been known to appropriate

Hear the words of Lester Holt: “When we run out of them upstairs, I've been known to appropriate some from our greenroom, pocketing a few with one hand as I smile and greet our guests with the other. One time, Dave Zinczenko of Eat This, Not That! fame, busted me in the act. The cookies apparently fall in the ‘not that’ category. I made a note of it.” At first, this tale of stolen cookies seems lighthearted, a confession told with humor. Yet within it lies a deeper teaching about human nature, desire, and the balancing of duty with indulgence. For even in the halls of professionalism, the heart still longs for small pleasures, and the smile that cloaks the act is the eternal dance between honesty and temptation.

The ancients knew well the role of such small transgressions. In the temples of Greece, offerings of honey-cakes were made to the gods, but often the priests themselves would secretly take a taste, laughing among themselves, even as they presented solemn rituals. This was not mere hypocrisy; it was a reminder that even those closest to the divine are still human. Holt’s playful appropriation of cookies reflects this same truth: that no matter how serious the work, joy and temptation follow us into every chamber.

Consider also the Roman general Lucullus, famed not only for his campaigns but for his extravagant banquets. History records that he would dine lavishly even when alone, saying, “Tonight, Lucullus dines with Lucullus.” Some laughed at his indulgence, but others saw wisdom in it: the recognition that life must hold room for pleasure amidst duty. Holt’s smile as he pockets a cookie is not unlike Lucullus at his feasts—a declaration that small indulgences, taken with humor, give balance to the weight of responsibility.

The moment with Dave Zinczenko brings the story into sharper focus. For here we see the eternal role of the watcher, the one who points out the folly of indulgence. Zinczenko, author of Eat This, Not That!, embodies discipline, the voice of restraint. When he sees Holt reaching for what is sweet but “not that,” it becomes a moment of revelation: that all our small pleasures are choices weighed between health and joy, between discipline and delight. Holt’s admission—“I made a note of it”—shows humility, the willingness to learn even in jest.

But let us not miss the heroic truth in Holt’s story: the smile. Even as he pockets the cookie, he greets his guests warmly, never allowing his indulgence to overshadow his duty. This is the balance the ancients praised: to be both human and responsible, to find joy without neglecting one’s role. For the smile is more than a mask; it is the declaration that joy and duty need not be enemies—they may coexist, even in the same moment, even in the same gesture.

The lesson is clear: do not despise the small cookies of life. They may not always belong in the “eat this” category, but they nourish the spirit with joy. At the same time, remember the wisdom of the watchers: balance indulgence with discipline, sweetness with restraint. Smile as you take your pleasures, but be mindful of their weight. Let humor, humility, and balance guide you, so that your indulgences never become your chains.

So let this wisdom endure: life is not lived in solemnity alone, nor in endless indulgence. Take the cookie when your heart needs sweetness, but do not forget to make a note of it, to learn, to balance. Let your smile remind you that joy belongs even in the busiest halls of work, and let your humility remind you that even small choices shape your path. For the greatest wisdom is not to deny pleasure nor to be consumed by it, but to walk the middle way—dutiful, joyful, and always human.