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LJ Idol: The first gingerbread bite
Dec. 14th, 2018 01:14 pm“The Gingerbread House has four walls, a roof, a door, a window, and a chimney. It is decorated with many sweet culinary delights on the outside.
But on the inside there is nothing—only the bare gingerbread walls.
It is not a real house—not until you decide to add a Gingerbread Room.
That’s when the stories can move in.
They will stay in residence for as long as you abstain from taking the first gingerbread bite.”
― Vera Nazarian, The Perpetual Calendar of Inspiration
My office has a tradition of putting together gingerbread houses for our firm Christmas party. Last year, we started meeting at a restaurant instead of one of the partner's homes, so we skipped this particular tradition. That was a relief, y'all, because those little suckers are HARD to put together.
Monday morning two weeks ago, I came into my office to see a brightly colored wrapped package. I was super excited, because it wasn't the day for Secret Santa, so this was just a random gift.
Or, so I thought.
"Bring to the office on December 14 for judging."
There it was, in all it's slick lies and promise of simplicity, a gingerbread house in a box kit.
Of course, I waited until last night to assemble it. My friend wanted to help, and my boyfriend certainly didn't. He's lived through the years where we had to do this at the actual firm party, so he's smart enough to run away. Anyway, she came over and we made cookie dough, ate dinner, played with the baby and then got to business.
I was putting cookies in the oven while she opened the package and box and heard, "Uhh, Bewize? This is broken."
"They usually are," I said absently, much more concerned about the cookies that I was baking than the stale gross gingerbread she was unwrapping.
"Some of this is sand," she said, and her tone of voice sounded genuinely upset. I shoved the cookies in the oven and went over to see what we were working with.
Crumble. Pieces. Broken fragments. A few side panels had only snapped once, but the whole thing was a total shambles.
Clearly, the gingerbread house hadn't survived transport well.
"Oh, shit." I paused, tempted to shrug and throw it all away. But, I could tell that she was really disappointed. "Let's see what we can make of the pieces," I finally suggested.
An hour later, covered in hardened frosting (which also hadn't survived transport well), we ended up with a wonky stone hinge. Of course, even that fell apart after a few minutes. Not even cement frosting and toothpicks would hold this mess up.
I snapped a picture and sent it to my office with the word SABOTAGE as the email header.
Then, we talked about the gingerbread house.
I felt a little bad for my friend. She'd cleared an evening to come and spend time and work on this project. She'd brought extra candy and decorations. She was really into the whole idea. She doesn't have family that she's close to. Me, the boyfriend, the baby - we are her de facto family, and our house is her family home.
We are her Christmas experience.
She was gutted.
I showed her the picture I'd sent to the office. She paused, then took the fondant in a package, unwrapped it, and crafted a disembodied hand with a prominently displayed middle finger.
I was so proud of her. I promptly sent that picture out as a "reply all" to myself, with a metric ton of giggles between us. She told me later she admired my balls.
Later, she asked if I'd agree to help her put together another gingerbread house for the contest she'd started at her work.
I mentally sighed, because she doesn't know - it's always like that. It never turns out like you plan. It's deceptively cheerful box, holding disappointment, things that won't go right, and icky tasting cookies and candy.
"Yep, of course!" I replied. Because, it's Christmas. Because, she's family. Because that gingerbread house is nothing, if not a metaphor for life.
I saved the fondant middle finger, though. Just because. After all, it's always good to be prepared!
Written for LJ Idol prompt: "Sucker Punch." I will link the poll if there is voting.
But on the inside there is nothing—only the bare gingerbread walls.
It is not a real house—not until you decide to add a Gingerbread Room.
That’s when the stories can move in.
They will stay in residence for as long as you abstain from taking the first gingerbread bite.”
― Vera Nazarian, The Perpetual Calendar of Inspiration
My office has a tradition of putting together gingerbread houses for our firm Christmas party. Last year, we started meeting at a restaurant instead of one of the partner's homes, so we skipped this particular tradition. That was a relief, y'all, because those little suckers are HARD to put together.
Monday morning two weeks ago, I came into my office to see a brightly colored wrapped package. I was super excited, because it wasn't the day for Secret Santa, so this was just a random gift.
Or, so I thought.
"Bring to the office on December 14 for judging."
There it was, in all it's slick lies and promise of simplicity, a gingerbread house in a box kit.
Of course, I waited until last night to assemble it. My friend wanted to help, and my boyfriend certainly didn't. He's lived through the years where we had to do this at the actual firm party, so he's smart enough to run away. Anyway, she came over and we made cookie dough, ate dinner, played with the baby and then got to business.
I was putting cookies in the oven while she opened the package and box and heard, "Uhh, Bewize? This is broken."
"They usually are," I said absently, much more concerned about the cookies that I was baking than the stale gross gingerbread she was unwrapping.
"Some of this is sand," she said, and her tone of voice sounded genuinely upset. I shoved the cookies in the oven and went over to see what we were working with.
Crumble. Pieces. Broken fragments. A few side panels had only snapped once, but the whole thing was a total shambles.
Clearly, the gingerbread house hadn't survived transport well.
"Oh, shit." I paused, tempted to shrug and throw it all away. But, I could tell that she was really disappointed. "Let's see what we can make of the pieces," I finally suggested.
An hour later, covered in hardened frosting (which also hadn't survived transport well), we ended up with a wonky stone hinge. Of course, even that fell apart after a few minutes. Not even cement frosting and toothpicks would hold this mess up.
I snapped a picture and sent it to my office with the word SABOTAGE as the email header.
Then, we talked about the gingerbread house.
I felt a little bad for my friend. She'd cleared an evening to come and spend time and work on this project. She'd brought extra candy and decorations. She was really into the whole idea. She doesn't have family that she's close to. Me, the boyfriend, the baby - we are her de facto family, and our house is her family home.
We are her Christmas experience.
She was gutted.
I showed her the picture I'd sent to the office. She paused, then took the fondant in a package, unwrapped it, and crafted a disembodied hand with a prominently displayed middle finger.
I was so proud of her. I promptly sent that picture out as a "reply all" to myself, with a metric ton of giggles between us. She told me later she admired my balls.
Later, she asked if I'd agree to help her put together another gingerbread house for the contest she'd started at her work.
I mentally sighed, because she doesn't know - it's always like that. It never turns out like you plan. It's deceptively cheerful box, holding disappointment, things that won't go right, and icky tasting cookies and candy.
"Yep, of course!" I replied. Because, it's Christmas. Because, she's family. Because that gingerbread house is nothing, if not a metaphor for life.
I saved the fondant middle finger, though. Just because. After all, it's always good to be prepared!
Written for LJ Idol prompt: "Sucker Punch." I will link the poll if there is voting.