Every once in a while I'll get an idea. No, not an idea... an IDEA. You can hear the capitalization in it. And, true, to form, they NEVER come at a good time. Case in point: on the Sunday before Christmas I decided I wanted to make HOMEMADE gingerbread houses with the boys. When I told the Flake he didn't try to convince me otherwise, bless his heart. Instead, he somewhat frantically suggested I go ahead and take the next 36 hours to go visit my bestie in another state. I'm sure he hoped that the 12 hour round trip drive and estrogen-fueled squeefest would deter my architectural pastry dreams.
Silly Rabbit. Like I can be deterred that easily.
DAY 1: I at least decided to use a mix (they were 50% off at Target, how could I not?) and just add more flour to stiffen the dough. I believe the exact measurement was "more than what ended up on the counter". As my piece of crap Not A KitchenAid mixer tried not to burn out it's motor, I called the Z up to check out the dough and experience the wonder of family togetherness.
"It looks like dog poop." OK, so maybe it did, but oh, the heavenly scents of ginger and cinnamon! "It looks and smells like the dog ate the homemade ornaments off the tree."
Fair enough. After effectively spilling flour over half the kitchen and before the smoke from Not A KitchenAid could set off the detectors I wrapped the dough up and stuck it in the fridge to set.
DAY 2: And sit. It was New Years Eve. Unless it involved fun beverages or fake mustaches I was having none of it.
DAY 3: The Flake shows up after a shopping expedition with not one, not two, BUT THREE GINGERBREAD KITS. Not, of course, because he DOUBTS my prowess as a Gingerbread Goddess, oh no... but because he has the FORESIGHT to see we may need more than one house to decorate! BRILLIANCE! I lay out the pieces... I snip the tip off the pre-bagged royal icing.... I call the children up to begin a beautiful afternoon of craftsmanship.
The children are busy defeating the forces of Blarg.
I'd like to say that I calmly went downstairs and invited them again to join in my wholesome fun. I'd like to say that they happily put down the video game controllers and joined me in brotherly love. I'd like to say all of that, but I'd be lying. I'd also be lying if I didn't admit to the frisson of glee that sparked in my Pinterest-inspired heart at the idea that ALL YOUR GINGERBREAD ARE BELONG TO ME. In fact... IN FACT... what seems like a GREAT idea is to DESIGN MY OWN TEMPLATE FOR A HOUSE! And cut it out of shirt boxes! And add doors and windows... and not just ANY windows, but STAINED GLASS WINDOWS MADE OF CRUSHED CANDIES! My God, I am GENIUS!
Three hours later I am covered in a thin crust of hardened sugar and have third degree "stained glass" burns on my fingers. I hate you, gingerbread. Why can't I quit you?
DAY 4: HOW MANY EFFING DAYS DOES THIS SHIT TAKE? The houses, to my credit (thank you) are glued together. Nothing has collapsed. Once again Not A KitchenAid is in action, this time on icing detail. I have to admit, the homemade New Orleans style shotgun house is pretty bad ass, with it's stained glass windows, covered porch, and staircase. I'm feeling pretty awesome. Obviously the house can't be BROWN. It needs to be pink! I'll frost it pink!
Pirate Note: Frosting around adorable stained glass candy windows is a pain in the ass. Within ten minutes I"m spackling the crap on with my hands. But it works! It's adorably covered in pink royal icing! Next comes the alternating chex roof tiles... the gum stick shutters... THE RICE KRISPY TREAT BUSHES! No lie, by the time I put my icing gun down, I had one fine looking gingerbread house. A work of art really. It was worth the burned fingers, the fine sheen of icing on every exposed surface (including my skin). I needed a shower but first, first I would call my family to view my creation, no, my MASTERPIECE. As I swelled with pride, my family gathered around to admire my creation. "When do we get to start ours?"
Dammit.
Silly Rabbit. Like I can be deterred that easily.
DAY 1: I at least decided to use a mix (they were 50% off at Target, how could I not?) and just add more flour to stiffen the dough. I believe the exact measurement was "more than what ended up on the counter". As my piece of crap Not A KitchenAid mixer tried not to burn out it's motor, I called the Z up to check out the dough and experience the wonder of family togetherness.
"It looks like dog poop." OK, so maybe it did, but oh, the heavenly scents of ginger and cinnamon! "It looks and smells like the dog ate the homemade ornaments off the tree."
Fair enough. After effectively spilling flour over half the kitchen and before the smoke from Not A KitchenAid could set off the detectors I wrapped the dough up and stuck it in the fridge to set.
DAY 2: And sit. It was New Years Eve. Unless it involved fun beverages or fake mustaches I was having none of it.
DAY 3: The Flake shows up after a shopping expedition with not one, not two, BUT THREE GINGERBREAD KITS. Not, of course, because he DOUBTS my prowess as a Gingerbread Goddess, oh no... but because he has the FORESIGHT to see we may need more than one house to decorate! BRILLIANCE! I lay out the pieces... I snip the tip off the pre-bagged royal icing.... I call the children up to begin a beautiful afternoon of craftsmanship.
The children are busy defeating the forces of Blarg.
I'd like to say that I calmly went downstairs and invited them again to join in my wholesome fun. I'd like to say that they happily put down the video game controllers and joined me in brotherly love. I'd like to say all of that, but I'd be lying. I'd also be lying if I didn't admit to the frisson of glee that sparked in my Pinterest-inspired heart at the idea that ALL YOUR GINGERBREAD ARE BELONG TO ME. In fact... IN FACT... what seems like a GREAT idea is to DESIGN MY OWN TEMPLATE FOR A HOUSE! And cut it out of shirt boxes! And add doors and windows... and not just ANY windows, but STAINED GLASS WINDOWS MADE OF CRUSHED CANDIES! My God, I am GENIUS!
Three hours later I am covered in a thin crust of hardened sugar and have third degree "stained glass" burns on my fingers. I hate you, gingerbread. Why can't I quit you?
DAY 4: HOW MANY EFFING DAYS DOES THIS SHIT TAKE? The houses, to my credit (thank you) are glued together. Nothing has collapsed. Once again Not A KitchenAid is in action, this time on icing detail. I have to admit, the homemade New Orleans style shotgun house is pretty bad ass, with it's stained glass windows, covered porch, and staircase. I'm feeling pretty awesome. Obviously the house can't be BROWN. It needs to be pink! I'll frost it pink!
Pirate Note: Frosting around adorable stained glass candy windows is a pain in the ass. Within ten minutes I"m spackling the crap on with my hands. But it works! It's adorably covered in pink royal icing! Next comes the alternating chex roof tiles... the gum stick shutters... THE RICE KRISPY TREAT BUSHES! No lie, by the time I put my icing gun down, I had one fine looking gingerbread house. A work of art really. It was worth the burned fingers, the fine sheen of icing on every exposed surface (including my skin). I needed a shower but first, first I would call my family to view my creation, no, my MASTERPIECE. As I swelled with pride, my family gathered around to admire my creation. "When do we get to start ours?"
Dammit.
 |
| Admit it... this kicks Gingerbread Newbie ASS. |
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