Every Christmas, I channel my inner Martha Stewart in the quest of creating the absolutely perfect Gingerbread Man.
Only, every year I fail miserably and instead channel my inner Mary Shelley in the creation of a hideous cookie monster made of sugar and spice that is systematically trying to kill me.
I’m not really sure what makes operation Gingerbread Man fail.
The no-fail ingredients of sugar, molasses, cloves, cinnamon, nutmeg, honey, butter, flour, eggs and just a hint of sea salt blend together beautifully to make the most delicious tasting dough.
At this point I have my Gingerbread Man where I want him.
A mere putty in my hands.
That is…until the dough starts to turn on me.
Despite leaving the dough in the refrigerator for an hour followed by three rounds of carefully rolling the ultra-sticky dough between sheets of plastic wrap then freezing the dough for 15 minute intervals, it never completely hardens.
Ultimately, I end up throwing half of the dough in the garbage.
Maybe I’m not patient enough to wait for the dough to harden completely, or maybe it’s just shrinkage from the freezer.
I ask you, is one man worth all this work?
I’m not even that big of a gingerbread fan, yet I am compelled to win the battle of the sexes.
Maybe it’s determination gained from growing up during the women’s rights movement in the 1970’s.
If tennis professional Billie Jean King could defeat Bobby Riggs on national television, surely I can conquer a four inch spice cookie in my own kitchen.
Gingerbread men are no exception.
As God is my witness, I will never attempt to bake Gingerbread Men again.
Though we all know, all it will take is for that spicy little man to flash his perfect royal icing smile and I’ll throw on my sexiest apron and have my heart stomped again.
Then I’ll bite his head off and drown my sorrows in a tall glass of milk.