Not exactly the poster child for a good time.ĭoes that make me lame, too? Maggie asks. Look at me, I’m in the bakery on a Friday night, rereading my favorite book for the twentieth time. I baked it extra long so the pieces would be sturdier for when I assemble the walls. I scoff, knowing a thing or two about pregnancy myself. You can’t deny a pregnant woman her cravings. I twist my lips into a frown, not wanting to waste a morsel of these perfect rooflines.Ĭome on, Greta, she begs. Can I taste?" She raises her eyes pleading with me. "Oh my gosh, it smells amazing in here, she groans. But as she sweeps into the kitchen, still practically glowing from her recent whirlwind wedding, she isn’t so negative about my December-endeavor. Maggie, my sister and business partner, has told me a hundred times this plan is insane-that as a single mom I have enough on my plate this time of year. Over the next few weeks, as we lead up to Christmas, I’m going to make the most adorable gingerbread village for the bakery’s display window. Sheets and sheets of it in fact, as they are necessary to my plan. The bakery is filled with the most classic Christmas smell known to man: gingerbread. With an apron covered in flour, I set the book I’ve been down reading on the counter, and pull the pan from the oven.
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