Dear Reader,
I am not able to write much at this time, as I have spent the past five days making gingerbread. Way back when my children were really little, I thought it would be fun to make a gingerbread house. If you have ever taken on this thankless and tedious and arduous task, you know what I'm talking about. A word of warning to those of you without children, or whose children are very young: think long and hard before initiating any activity that threatens to become tradition! Last night, at half-past midnight, my head pounding and eyes watering from inhaling noxious clouds of allspice and molasses, I had a vision wherein my daughter, now grown with children of her own, asks me to come over to make gingerbread houses with my grandchildren. I weep as I tell you I fear I will be making these houses for the rest of my life. The irony is that the houses I make aren't even very pretty. Now I must rush back to the kitchen where three walls are sliding all over each other with royal icing, and I have to stand there, holding them, arms shaking, until it dries or I throw in the towel and get out the duct tape.
More on this tomorrow...
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