13/12- Gingerbread- Baking Up Happiness

Freshly baked cookies. Mmmm. You can just imagine it.

Sitting on the table, greeting all those who live in the house. The smell of sugar wafting in the air, kissing you sweetly on the cheek.

Chocolate chip, sugar cookies, take your pick.

But I'm making gingerbread.

I'll first buy a gingerbread house-making kit, but whip up an extra batch of icing, because the kits never give you enough. I would make the flat gingerbread pieces myself, but every time I try, the house looks more like a cat.

How's that possible? You tell me.

I could just magic up some perfect cookies, but where's the fun in that?

Based on my decision to have the most fun, I've decided to enter a competition for the best gingerbread house and four gingerbread people. No magic. Only the tools given, so cheating is impossible. And a prompt.

*

Goodness, there are almost twenty people here! I'm never going to win now. Wait. That's not why you came here. You came here to honour your father. To have fun.

Our prompt, topically, was childhood. Specifically, 'your childhood'. Mine wasn't 'special'. It was nice and filled with love, but it wasn't unique.

Except for my love of gingerbread.

You might think I'm exaggerating how much I love gingerbread, but I'm not. When I take a bite, it's as if my soul is soaring and being transported to another time and place.

"Start!" the judge calls, and I grab the ingredients. I melt butter, sugar and syrup in a large pan, humming.

Silent night. Holy night.

Dad used to sing it when we baked together. Every time I'd make a mess, he'd skip to. All is calm. All is bright. But he never sang that part like a carol, but yelled it in surprise, before his voice became normal again.

I don't know why it was his favourite Christmas song.

Flour, baking soda, ginger... everything gets mixed together. Not the perfect consistency, a little tough, but just like dad's. I'd give anything to be back to ten years ago, baking with him, so mum and all my sisters could enjoy.

We always made triple batches.

I roll the dough out as flat as I can, cutting it into the right(ish) shapes. I'm more successful in getting a workout in, because I have to jump to get anything done.

All is calm. I mentally sing as I drop the desk with the dough on it, and I catch it with my shoe, before grabbing it firmly. At least the dough is still on the desk, but maybe I should get a cookie mat instead.

My mind's back at home a few seconds later, where we made icing as the oven dispersed heavenly smells of baking. Green, red and white.

Always add an extra spoon of sugar, so it's easier to work with. I pull the trays out. That's not burnt, is it? I just have to cut off the air bubbles.

I slide the trays into the fridge. Wait. Was that a crucial step, or a terrible mistake? It's been so long...

Twenty minutes later, my sweets are prepped, and my pieces are ready to assemble.

I'm acting as the architect with my eyes closed. The house was tall, but very skinny, unlike a classic gingerbread house. So, I basically make a sideways one and lay it on the shortest side. My house had the classic triangular roof, but too much fumbling and dropping made me decide to just stick a square on top and call it a day.

Dumb! I was meant to cut out the windows first! They were our family's prized possession, with fake snow painted on them to spell Merry Christmas, and my sister Jasmine, the artist that she is, would paint a caricature of Santa and his reindeer.

But no way I could recreate that, let alone in gingerbread form.

Well, we're going to have to add fake windows with icing.

I squeeze the piping bag too hard, and the icing squirts everywhere, including on another contestant. All is calm. Dad would have laughed.

Though I have to clean it up on my own, I'm smiling.

All is bright.

Eventually, I get back to decorating. I add the finishing flourishes in time for the judge to call, "Time!"

The presentation makes my stomach retreat into my spine. Everyone's is so good. That one has four stories! And that looks like something Jasmine would make, with the most gorgeous icing art I've ever seen. Wow, is that a living room inside the house?

At least mine's actually recognisable as a house. Though I can't say the same for the gingerbread people. I had only remembered them when I was about to eat the spare cookie sheets.

One of them only has a face, and the others have little frillies. The smallest one just has a splodge of icing. There's more sugary goodness than gingerbread!

*

I got last place. You know what? I don't care!

Since I was allowed to take my gingerbread home, I'm chewing on it on the walk back. The food is piled up in my arms, and I take a bite straight out of the roof, taking the chimney off. Ok, maybe that bite was a bit too big.

Waving my wrist as much as I can, the gingerbread people jump out of the hole in the house and onto the pavement. Their funny selves trot on the path before me, and I giggle.

People are staring. Probably out of jealousy, because they don't have walking -- and dancing, apparently -- gingerbread.

Thank you for reading. I hope you got a little Christmas joy from this story. Here, for anyone who wants it, is the maintenance.

If you enjoyed this story, please, please, please (I can add a cherry if necessary) like, comment, rate and share. It really helps me out and allows others to see these (hopefully decent) stories. Thank you, and Merry Christmas.

Thank you for reading. I hope you got a little Christmas joy from this story. Here, for anyone who wants it, is the maintenance.

If you enjoyed this story, please, please, please (I can add a cherry if necessary) like, comment, rate and share. It really helps me out and allows others to see these (hopefully decent) stories. Thank you, and Merry Christmas.