All heads turn toward us, including my sisters Meg and Lainey, both casually nursing their babies as if they’re sipping lattes at a spa instead of wrangling tiny humans. Meanwhile, I’m just trying to keep my kids from starting a riot.
Sweet Piper snuggles against Meg while little Mimi contentedly nurses away in Lainey’s arms.
Piper was born in January, Mimi in February, and my twins arrived in March. Suffice it to say, the Lemon sisters have been busy procreating this year. Of course, I had to one-up them in the baby department, but as Noah likes to point out, Everett really is an overachiever.
This is actually Everett’ssecondset of twins. We just found out last winter that during his heyday as a playboy, he fathered Olivia and Ava—a couple of twelve-year-old girls who live in Fallbrook, ironically the same town where Everett grew up. Their mother Haley is now my children’s pediatrician, which says something about her character. She really is that good, both professionally and personally.
“Now we come to the hardest truth I have to share with you today,” Bunny says, her voice taking on the gravity of someone about to deliver devastating news. “Sugar.”
A gasp circles the tent, with mine being the loudest.
“Beautiful souls, I need you to understand that refined sugar is quite literally poison in crystalline form, and we’ve been feeding it to ourselves and our children as if it’s harmless.”
She moves to her chalkboard and writesSUGAR = INFLAMMATIONin large letters. “Every single teaspoon of refined sugar creates a massive inflammatory response in your body that lasts for hours. Your immune system literally treats sugar like an invader, sendingwhite blood cells rushing to deal with the assault. Imagine doing that to yourself three, four, five times a day with every meal and snack.”
Three, four, five times a day? Why, I have a sugary treat three, four, five times a morning, and round up into the teens by noon.
Bunny’s passion intensifies. “But it gets worse. Most disease cells feed on sugar—it’s their preferred fuel source. When you eat sugar, you’re literally feeding any abnormal cells in your body, helping them grow stronger and multiply faster. Studies show that people who consume high amounts of sugar have significantly higher disease rates. We’re essentially fertilizing illness.”
I gasp at the thought just as both of my sisters turn to give me a dirty look.
Bunny turns back to the audience. “And then there’s your hormonal system. Sugar causes massive insulin spikes that lead to insulin resistance, which leads to diabetes, weight gain, and hormonal chaos. Your cortisol levels spike, your adrenaline surges, and your body goes into constant fight-or-flight mode. No wonder we’re all exhausted, anxious, and craving more sugar!”
About six different women turn in my direction and glare.
Wonderful. I shoot Bunny a look. Way to make me look like the villain of this story—when ironically, it might just be her. Or at least she is in my book.
Bunny shakes her head sadly. “But here’s what breaks my heart the most—sugar is eight times more addictive than cocaine. Eight times! We’re raising children who are literal drug addicts, and we don’t even realize it.”
My fingers fly to my lips in horror while eyeing Lyla Nell, who has suddenly helped herself to her snack container and is happily gobbling down glazed donut holes two at a time.
“Their brains are being rewired to crave sugar constantly,” Bunny goes on. “They’ll grow up unable to taste the natural sweetness in an apple or a carrot because their taste buds have been hijacked by artificial intensity.”
Why, I’ve hijacked Lyla Nell’s taste buds!
Lainey turns around and sticks her tongue out at me before facing the front again.
A breath hitches in my throat. Et tu, Lainey?
Bunny gestures to the crowd. “How many of you have hidden candy bars in your purse, your car, your desk drawer? How many of you have eaten cookies standing in your kitchen at midnight, promising yourself it’s the last time?” A tiny wave of nervous giggles circles the tent once again. “How many of you feel genuine panic at the thought of giving up sugar completely?”
Several women nod sheepishly, and Bunny’s expression softens with compassion. “That’s not a character flaw. That’saddiction. Your brain has been chemically altered to crave something that’s slowly destroying your health. But here’s the beautiful truth—you can heal. Your taste buds can recover. Your body can remember how to function without constant sugar hits.”
She moves closer to the audience. “When you eliminate refined sugar, inflammation drops, energy stabilizes, sleep improves, skin clears, mood balances, and cravings disappear. Your body remembers how to burn fat for fuel instead of constantly demanding quick sugar fixes. You become metabolically flexible again, the way humans were designed to be.”
Bunny pauses for effect. “I’m not talking about never eating anything sweet again. Nature provides beautiful sweetness in fruits, raw honey, pure maple syrup, and coconuts—foods that come with fiber, minerals, and nutrients that help your body process them gently. But the white crystalline powder we’ve been told is harmless? It’s time to call it what it is—a drug that’s been disguised as food.”
“It’s Satan’s cocaine!” Carlotta belts it out at top volume, and the audience nods in agreement with the fervor of people who’ve found their nutritional savior.
I kick Carlotta in the shin as discreetly as possible for throwing my bakery and me under the sugar-fueled bus—and possibly leading us straight to the hot place in an Easter basket. ’Tis the season.
The twins escalate to full wails, and I realize I only have twooptions and both of them happen to be leaking milk. I quickly lift my blouse, and soon I’m nursing both boys simultaneously in what can only be described as a logistical miracle. A few heads do double takes my way, but thankfully I’m surrounded by a sea of women who understand the reality of motherhood—and aren’t afraid of a couple of double D’s and oversized nipples staring them in the face.
“Now, I know what you’re thinking,” Bunny continues. Her voice is gentle but unwavering. “But Bunny, what about my morning muffin? My afternoon cookie? My slice of birthday cake? Surely those can’t be all that bad?”
Or every single item in my bakery, I want to add, but don’t dare. I’ll have to run a flash sale on my cinnamon rolls to lure half the town back into my oven mitt clutches.
She shakes her head with the sad wisdom of someone who’s seen the truth. “Beautiful souls, baked goods are sugar delivery systems wrapped in flour—which your body converts to sugar within minutes of eating it. That innocent-looking blueberry muffin? It contains more sugar than a can of soda, plus refined white flour that spikes your blood sugar faster than candy.”
