Gingerbread

Gingerbread with spiced vanilla icing

Today was nearly perfect.
A cool breeze, high of 70 degrees, low humidity, and generally overcast.
It made me think of my daughter, Melissa; all that was missing for her perfect weather was rain!
I turned off the air conditioning, threw open the windows, and put on a sweatshirt.
It even got a little chilly in the house.
A few bushes in my yard are even stepping into their fall finery, lending a bright burst of red among the hostas.
Even though it's still summer, I can't wait for fall.
My September mood hinted at the promise of pumpkins, spiced cider, and gingerbread.

By afternoon I had logged enough steps to satisfy my step-counter.
I had made the crust for zucchini crusted pizza for dinner tonight and read a good deal of a novel.
Bassets had been let in, and out, and in, and out too many times to count.
Cats were attended to; laps, petting, admiring.
And I was pooped.
But I couldn't stop thinking about gingerbread.

I looked online for a recipe, yearning for the bite of ginger in a truly dark, dense gingerbread.
I found several that looked promising, but was too tired to face all the multiple steps - boiling this with that, adding stout which would necessitate yet another trip to the basement larder, and so on.

Finally I settled on what I thought would be a quick, easy version of gingerbread. A simple recipe from the 1930s that I could adjust here and there - brown sugar for white, using part whole wheat flour, and adding much more ginger than called for.

My mind made up and recipe chosen I forged ahead through the fog of fatigue, knowing that I could whip this up in 10 minutes, bake for 30, and being lying down in 35.
The problem with fog, however, is that it kind of muddles up one's thinking.
As the batter was almost ready to pour in the pan, I realized I had added twice as much salt as needed.
Crap.
The only thing I could do was double the recipe.
More eggs needed to be retrieved from aforementioned larder.
Down in the basement.
Stepped over dogs.
Ran out of flour.
Refilled container from bin in basement.
Greased another pan.
Stepped over dogs.
Not enough ginger.
Search spice drawer.
Still not enough ginger.
Found another smidge.
Measured more molasses.
Etc.

Finally, after nearly 20 minutes the gingerbread was in the oven.
The dogs were finally asleep.
And my house was filling delightfully with the spicy aroma of gingerbread.
I'm not yet lying down, though I still have high hopes for a bit of a rest.

Did I mention that of the five people living in my house, I'm pretty much the only one who really loves gingerbread?
Looks like my craving will be satisfied.
And then some.