I didn’t get Christmas all done on time. About thirty cards are left unmailed. The new ornaments I bought for my boys’ collections spent the season in the wilderness under my desk and are now in the attic, still in their store wrapping. A few presents for friends and teachers sit undelivered on the dining room table. And we never made the gingerbread house, despite plans to build it on the first day of the school holiday, then on Christmas Eve, then on the last day of the school holiday, then on Twelfth Night, last Saturday. We even pledged to make it yesterday, but wandered off to do homework instead. The gingerbread house became one of those sad projects just shunted from one counter to another, too complicated to slide into the schedule but too seductive to throw away.
On the way to school this morning, I fell into the heroic trap of promising my youngest son — my greatest gingerbread partisan — that today, yes, today would be the day. We would build that house after school, even before he did his reading homework or practiced violin. We would build it before we ate dinner together. We would build it, definitely. Nothing would stand in our way. Except that the boys had already eaten the original stash of candy I bought for the job last month. Would Walgreen’s even stock that much red dye and high fructose corn syrup after New Year’s?
Lucky for us, they do.
Here, the finished product.
See that swedish fish installed over the imaginary fireplace? My son says the second roof panel must open, so the viewer can see inside. My assignment is to rig a roof-hinging mechanism out of royal icing and gumdrops. Maybe tomorrow.
Today, I’m just enjoying the taste of fun delayed.