Attack of the seasonal baked goods

My sister is more of an inspiration than she knows. Passionate, loyal, devoted and funny, she has been my bedrock over the past twelve months, and no more so than on an issue that has plagued our family for years, handed down the generations like brown eyes, snooker chin* and a tendency to bronchial lungs.


Oh yes, our stop-eating switches are faulty and our emotional make up means we’ll reach for a cake when we’re angry or upset rather than deal with that is upsetting us. Or we did, until she decided enough was enough and over the past year has rid herself of 3 stone of baggage.

Yes, I know: THREE STONES! That’s 42 pounds no longer weighing her down, and she looks amazing on it.

Families being what they are (ours, at least), that doesn’t take place within the unit without the ripple effect kicking in. So now, in an effort to make this year the year I get my shit together and behave like the bloody adult I’m supposed to be, I’ve also joined her. And it’s scary. And I miss cheese.

And sometimes those damned hot cross buns just won’t leave a person alone.

attack of the hot cross buns

*snooker chin: a chin dimple that my dad says is just right for using as a snooker cue steady. Ironically, I really suck at snooker.


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