There is a reason I am not bestowing self-made gifts upon my loved ones: I really suck at crafty things. Nevertheless, I am not self-conscious enough to keep all the fun (sticky glue! paper snippets sticking to your socks! oh YAY, the fun!!) from Lil’ L. And so I set out to bake a gingerbread house. Or rather: I went to the big Swedish shop and bought a flatpack, in true Swedish style.
My aversion against all things crafty is so serious, the flatpack has been collecting dust on the top shelf of my kitchen cupboard for the past 12 months. But as my firstborn not only got my blonde mane but also my painstakingly accurate memory of an elephant when it comes to entirely useless things (never worked on Latin vocabulary, bummer!), conveniently forgetting about it was out of question.
In a short-lived bout of craft confidence, I asked myself ‘how hard can this really be?’ and rolled up my sleeves. It went downhill from there. The eggs where too eggy, the icing sugar wayyyyyy too dusty, the icing too runny, the house too wonky, icing on my fingers, icing between my fingers, icing in my hair, icing everywhere, damn bloody stupid icing underneath my feet…
Somehow we came out the other end fairly unscathed and although wonky, the Gingerbread house is still standing. And whilst the side Lil’ L decorated looks cute and as if out of a kid’s fairy tale, mine looks like something out of My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding. Crafty Schmafty.