I don’t have a kit, so I’ll wing it.
Doing this may not really be necessary — who’s interested? But I want it to be in the world.
There is no hard gingerbread, only soft honeyed slices. I thought that wouldn’t matter. But they won’t hold up the roof.
At least, not easily.
I find ways, shifting, doubling, folding in half.
The vanilla-flavored whipped cream was a desperate attempt to replace the icing I couldn’t find.
It hasn’t worked out.
But it’s still delicious.
Candy and cream are sliding everywhere, a holiday hot mess.
The gummy worm door has slipped off the wall, the sour drink bottles that looked vaguely like a Christmas tree have come apart and are floating in a small pool of cream. Candy roof tiles lose their grip, and fall.
But the house still holds, in spite of it all.
Take it at face value, laugh and pick on the candy. Or you can see it as some kind of metaphor. Struggle and determination, even though the goal is silly, inconsequential to so many. See it as some of the things I’ve learned this year: more self-reliance, more improvisation. A slightly — slightly — cooler head in the heat of frustration.
I can’t help thinking I haven’t made a rambling, messy gingerbread house, so much as a self-portrait.