My grandfather, Papa Vic, would take my grandmother’s very stiff gingerbread dough and attach a metal beater to the end of his electric drill.  He’d then sit by the Fisher stove with the big mixing bowl secured tight between his work boots.  The added flour would make a nice white cloud as I got to pour it in, little by little.  This was pretty grand in the eyes of a 5 year old.  It really couldn’t get much better.  He’d mix in all the flour that Gramma required for the perfect crisp gingerbread man, woman, horse, bell, star, tree and bird.

 

Now I’m 50 and love a crisp ginger with my morning holiday coffee.  Papa Vic taught me this.  Gramma taught me how to cut and decorate them by the dozens.  And I mean, dozens.  And dozens.  Like now in my DNA.

 

On a hiking trip through New Zealand backcountry, I decided to check in with family at home during the Christmas holiday with pictures of my Gingerbread men that would progressively get smaller as my milage increased.  Run, run… little gingerbread man!  My little sister then checked in with us the same way with her own chasing of the holiday gingerbread man years later during her NZ adventures.  

 

I bet your family might have a holiday cookie story too!