My son and grand-daughter
are making gingerbread,
wearing matching aprons.
Crisis: unsalted butter left out
went soft – but they find enough.
When mixed, the dough must go in the fridge
three hours – like short crust, they say.
They tell me the ingredients:
things I can’t eat, but they’ll give me
a tiny piece. After all, it's Christmas.
The next item mustn’t be added
until the last is measured.
‘Mix slowly into the wet stuff.’
The beaters whirr and grind.
A knife scrapes a spoon. I hear
deliberations, and laughter.
I expect to enjoy my taste when I get it.
