Gingerbread by Philip Scott Wikel
A classic “Saltbox” blueprint pressed in the pages of a 1962 Betty Crocker cookbook. The instructions written in a hand long since passed on.
Flour, sugar, water, ginger, oil, baking soda, salt.
Dry stuff first, then wet; mixed in a ’62 Pyrex bowl.
Knead it,
roll it,
cut it (allowing for windows and doors)
then bake it.
White frosting mortar,
red & green M&M’s,
peppermint candies and red hots.
The kitchen is filled with the heavy scent of gingerbread.
“Now don’t eat too much of the icing, it’ll make you sick and rot your teeth.”
“Ok mom, but my stomach already hurts.”
“Drink some club soda. And Carol, can you hand me the icer.”
“It’s important to get the first two walls together straight and strong.”
“Here mom, I’ll hold’em.” says the little boy.
“Thank you Philip, and Carol, can you get me a wet towel.”
Mom breathes heavily through her mouth, though her lips are close together. The air makes almost a whistling sound and Philip thinks how like music or the sound of the wind it is. Mom is copying the weather outside he thinks. Jack Frost north winds blowing across the continent and threatening to collapse the gingerbread walls. The weather sent dad out on overtime, fixing phone lines.
Her thumb struggles against the icer and turns red in places and flushes to white in others and the pressure looks to Philip as if it might hurt.
“Hard to push that thing down Mom?”
“Yes, but I’ve got it. It shouldn’t come out too fast or too slow. Do you want to try it?”
“You better do this first part mom. I’ll try on the next one.”
“Ok, hold the two wallls up and steady.”
Philip holds the walls up and hopes his hands won’t shake or wobble. He feels his shoulder muscles tighten and his fingers tense. He starts to breathe like his mother and now he’s Jack Frost.
“Steady,” says mom.
“I’m trying,” says Philip.
Mom squirts the icing all the down the length of the walls where they make a corner together. “Ok,” she says and motions for Philip to let go. Mom then wiggles the walls so they fit tightly.
“Hold’em again, please.”
She squirts more icing on the inside and the outside of the walls and leans and takes a long satisfying breath.
“You guys want to go out and play now? This is going to take a while to dry.”
“I’ll get my sled.” says Philip.
“Your big brother should be down by the pond. Get your warm jackets on and I’ll see you in about an hour.”
Sister Carol has the watch and Philip admires that she will be the one to know when it’s time to come back. Out through the back door, the ground crunches under their feet with Philip nearly falling as he walked down the back steps. There is a layer of ice under a couple inches of snow and his rubber boots can’t find friction.
“Hurry up you little poop,” his sister says.
“It’s icy,” says Philip.
“Well step down hard like me.” Carol steps down hard and Philip sees that her footsteps are deep and the ridges around her footsteps serve as support walls for her boots. They don’t slip and she strides like an eskimo around the back of the garage and into Mr. Van Leuven’s yard.
“D’ya think we could toboggan Mr. Van Leuven’s yard?” Philip asks.
“Not steep enough,” Carol replies.
They trudge throught the open space of the yard. The snow is deeper there in the open space away from the trees and it threatens to sneak into their boots. Philip keeps his head down watching for it to do so and runs head first into his sister.
“What’re you doing?” he asks.
‘My underwear is crawling up my butt,” she says, adjusting the seat of her pants.
“You’ve got a wedgie,” Philip says smiling.
“Shut up you little poop.” Carol says.
At the guard rail where [Washington] street turns and goes down they drag their sleds around the end of the rail and look for signs of their brother and other kids. Their breath is like pipe smoke and Philip thinks how it looks like they’re a couple of Godzillas about to burn each other.
“I’m Godzilla,” he says and rushes at his sister, “Rarrrrrr.”
“Get away you little dork.”
“Stop calling me names or I’ll tell mom.”
“I’m sorry,” she replies smiling, “you little dork.”
“How’d you like it?” he says.
“All right, I’m sorry.”
“I’m going first.” he says and jumps in front of his sister. The trail is steep but smooth. In summer it’s strewn with craggy rocks and divots but the ice has filled it in and Philip flies like an Olympic luge racer on a Yankee Clipper. He manages the twists and turns with grace, ducking beneath “sticker” bushes as he nearly derails a couple of times, then slows to the opening of the woods, where he grabs the sled’s “leash” and begins to drag it toward the pond.
He looks up at the hills which they call the pines and is projected in his mind along the dusted treetops and imagines himself again as Jack Frost; this time flying and blowing the snow into little tornadoes. The pines are his Sherwood or Black Forest and he situates himself among them as some claymation figure from the Christmas shows on TV.
Carol comes sliding in behind him, red-faced and smiling.
“The trail’s perfect huh?” he says.
“Yeah that was a good run.”
The two continue walking toward the pond.
“Can I drag your sled for ya,” asks Philip.
“I’ve got it, thanks.”
“How do ya think the gingerbread’s doing?”
“We’ve got a little time.”
“I love you sis.”
“I love you too.”
The two would be grounded a couple of weeks later during Christmas vacation and it was because they loved each other that it would be ok.
The Lorax Correspondent 