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My Hips Don’t Lie Either . . . Bummer

Shakira and I have a lot in common (I know, you were just thinking the same thing, right?) My hips don’t lie either. And that’s a problem around this time of year.

Strange things start to happen in my kitchen in late Fall. Daylight savings ends and my oven flames on of its own accord and sings irresistible songs about cinnamon and cloves and butternut squash. I have no defenses. Must bake. Or make soup. Sadly the baking gene surfaced in each of my children as well. Heather made killer Soft Molasses Cookies (click on the photo for the recipe, you’ll cry they’re so good) and pumpkin bread (my sister-in-law Jen’s recipe is also on the page–best ever) this week. Have mercy.

Every Fall I wish my hips could lie. If only that zucchini muffin didn’t go straight to my lower regions and settle in for the winter I would have no problem. Why can’t my hips find some cunning way to hide the apple crisp and the Belgian waffles and the hot biscuits with pear butter? Is full disclosure kind or necessary?

I suppose I should be grateful to my hips for their brutal, tell-all honesty. When it reaches the point that I have to hold my breath in order to zip my jeans I turn away from the KitchenAid and head out the door for a run (I use the word “run” in its absolutely loosest sense.) Yep, I show those hips who’s boss. They regret their tattle-telling now, I’ll wager.

Ouch. My hips don’t lie, but they do whine a little after our run. They speak the truth as I hobble stiffly up the stairs: “You’re getting old . . .”  Thanks for the reminder. A couple of Advil will shut them up. With a pumpkin bread chaser.

What’s your favorite Fall recipe? Share it in a comment or just leave a link. I’ll add it to the recipes page.  I will also make it and eat it and let my hips say whatever they want. 

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