Gingerbread Hell House Part I

Dear Reader,

I am not able to write much at this time, as I have spent the past five days making gingerbread.  Way back when my children were really little, I thought it would be fun to make a gingerbread house.  If you have ever taken on this thankless and tedious and arduous task, you know what I'm talking about.  A word of warning to those of you without children, or whose children are very young:  think long and hard before initiating any activity that threatens to become tradition! Last night, at half-past midnight, my head pounding and eyes watering from inhaling noxious clouds of allspice and molasses, I had a vision wherein my daughter, now grown with children of her own, asks me to come over to make gingerbread houses with my grandchildren.  I weep as I tell you I fear I will be making these houses for the rest of my life.  The irony is that the houses I make aren't even very pretty.  Now I must rush back to the kitchen where three walls are sliding all over each other with royal icing, and I have to stand there, holding them, arms shaking, until it dries or I throw in the towel and get out the duct tape.

More on this tomorrow...