I can't read The Gingerbread Boy to my grandchildren without picturing Christmas of 1967. My husband would soon be home from Viet Nam, my grandparents were with us, and the family would soon be rid of me. What better way to celebrate than to make gingerbread boys. Tripling the recipe would be the order of the day and then the order of the night. We all began to hope they would jump out and run away. The line I remember was my Grandfather saying late into the night: "It looks like I'll have to help Ethel." That was the only time he ever helped in anyone's kitchen - at least as far as I know.
Another story is that my grandmother baked every minute of every day (or so I thought) when I was a child. When I had my own kitchen I called for her spice cake recipe. I decided not to tackle it after asking about how much milk to use. When she asked, "How much milk have you got?" - it squelched the effort.
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