From the title, this sounds like a sad story of a Gingerbread house that maybe fell apart or just failed but no, it is even sadder than that. I’ll say that I was maybe 6 years old. That would make Ann, 8, Bobby (sorry, Bob) 9 and Peter 2 years old. That was the year of the Great Ginger Bread House Tragedy.
My parents are very generous people, always volunteering, stepping up to the plate, and helping out where they can. One year they made 5 Gingerbread houses, a Gingerbread Castle (a freakin’ Castle) for other people. The houses were for sale at a hospital Bazaar (charity) and the castles was for another family! (O.K., I guess they were very poor and there were 6 kids). In my mind they made 12 houses but a phone call to Vermont confirmed there were only 5. It also confirmed that there were Necco wafers on the roofs, striped gum along side the castle doors, and tootsie rolls piled up outside each to represent logs. The castle even had a drawbridge. The kitchen was covered with sweet tasty goodness off limits to each DuCharme child. Perhaps a cracked candy cane tossed our way while Royal Icing was piped into icicles and snow balls on each and everyone.
I’ll admit, my Mom baked goodies for the holidays and included the kids in every step but not for this event. But my little 6 year old mind remembers the kitchen transformed Into a sweet Santa’s workshop forbidden to us. Sort of a “Hansel and Gretel kind” of feeling.
I try to make a gingerbread house every year, I always buy to much candy so there’s plenty to eat while creating and my favorite moment is giving the “thumbs up” to my kids, now 19 and 21 to attack it and consume without mercy. It’s like a little Christmas miracle, with each whack of the hammer on the roof until it caves in.
Every child should have a gingerbread house at some point in their life.
