The last time I made a gingerbread house I was in high school. I remember it distinctly, because as I stood at the kitchen counter, measuring cup* poised in the air, my father walked in the back door and grimly announced that our dog was dead. She was not just a prize winning bird dog in the prime of her athletic and perfectly healthy life, but the absolute apple of my eye. I have no recollection of the finished gingerbread house (or even if I actually completed it), but I do recall crying as I opened my Christmas gifts a few days later. Anyway, I say this only to have the happy occasion to report that "Miss Molly," who you met here, is alive and well, and, now that I think of it, quite a bit svelte-er than she was two months ago.
As much as I love to cook, I am not spending today up to my elbows in gingerbread, whipped egg whites and lobster, or soapy dishwater, but instead, am out riding at this very moment (isn't scheduled blog posting clever?) and am looking forward to having a lovely trout dinner appear before me upon my return. My only task is to assemble the already made components of the pumpkin pastry requested by my host tonight.
Oh Joyous Christmas!
* I think there was Crisco in the cup, which makes no sense, since I (thankfully!) grew up in an All Butter Family. They say trauma can affect the formation of memories. This is my only explanation.
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