You know, I really consider myself to be a moderately crafty kind of girl. I may not be very original, but I’m not totally incompetent in the crafting department. However, even with the store-bought gingerbread kits, I have yet to attempt this project with the kids with any degree of success. Me and icing apparently aren’t on the same wavelength. The houses always resemble something akin to a drunken Picasso painting (and not in a good way), and my kitchen ends up looking like a gingerbread man slaughterhouse. How’s that for some cheery holiday imagery, for ya?
I know what my issue is; any type of decorating which involves icing is a skill that, no matter my effort, I just can’t master. Believe me, I’ve tried. I can’t tell you how many cakes and cookies have fallen victim to my overly ambitious efforts to replicate those picture-perfect decorations I see in magazines. Since my pseudo-OCD will accept nothing less that wow-worthy perfection, these vain attempts usually leave me frustrated and blistering my kitchen walls with my extensive vocabulary of swear words.
This year, I was determined to save myself from the anxiety-inducing experience of the annual gingerbread house construction. My plan? Mix up the icing, toss it at the Heathens and wash my hands of the whole affair.
And what do you know? They had a blast.
They did a great job, and I didn’t have to spend 20 minutes washing green icing out of my hair. They are extremely proud of their creations, and peace was maintained in my kitchen. We call that a Christmas miracle, ya’ll.