Okay,
this has never happened to me. Honest. I mean, I’ve pretended that food talks—especially when trying to get one of my
kids to eat broccoli. But it’s never actually
happened. So I have my doubts as to the veracity of this story…
But
let’s scoot ahead, shall we?
There
was an elderly woman who had never been able to have children.
One
day, she got the brilliant idea to ‘make’ a child.
She
gathered: flour, sugar, shortening, eggs and spices, bowls, spoons, baking
sheets. An oven.
Okay,
yes, I’m beginning to understand her difficulty at conceiving.
Ahem…
Using
all of her not-inconsiderable skill, the woman rolled out a fine dough and cut
it into the proper shape.
Then
she added some currant eyes, nose and mouth and little raisin buttons.
Her
‘child’ was starting to look pretty sweet. In a totally un-child way—if you
catch my drift.
She
tenderly assembled the pieces on a baking sheet and slid the whole into the
oven.
Then
sat impatiently and waited for it to come out.
Huh.
Whenever my friends told me they had a ‘bun in the oven—Wink! Wink!’ I pictured
something far different. Was I wrong?
Moving
on…
Soon
her little dough boy was ready and steaming happily on the cupboard.
Well,
ready. I’m assuming the ‘happily’.
Even
though this little ‘boy’ looked totally delicious in a ‘made-with-flour-and-sugar-and-yumminess’
sort of way, I guarantee that his ‘mother’ just had a nice snuggle with her new
baby son in mind, when she reached for him.
Whatever
her intentions, ‘Ginger’ was having none of it.
Leaping
from the table, he looked at her and said (I am not making this up!): “I’m
outta here!” Well, actually, it was something more along the lines of “Run, run
as fast as you can! You can’t catch me, I’m the Gingerbread Man!”
I
want to mention this, because I’m sure many of you are thinking it: This little
lad was pretty self-aware, considering his lack of years. And the fact that he
was 100% cookie.
Bringing
the whole Nature vs Nurture discussion to a new level.
Anyways,
he leaped nimbly off the table and dashed head-long out the door.
The
old woman dashed after him, but, being somewhat slow and cumbersome due to her
advanced age and lack of speed-running prowess, he soon left her far, far
behind.
Sigh.
I
don’t know about you, but I hate it when my food talks back AND makes a runner.
Needless
to say, his mother was quite despondent, even questioning her parenting skills.
As
we all do when our child acts in a less-than-exemplary fashion.
But
I digress…
The
little Gingerbread man ran quickly along the country road, making good time.
Well,
he would have been making good time if he had any idea where he was going.
And
a firm or even a rather vague destination in mind.
A
group of farmers was just having their lunch when he dashed past.
Now
I’m remembering my box lunches from my youth and a fresh gingerbread cookie
would have livened them up no end.
No
wonder they all jumped up and gave enthusiastic chase.
But
with a laugh and another “Run, run as fast as you can…” speech, he eluded them.
There
was real Olympic potential in our little sprinter.
Of
course there’d be a distinct lack of competition in his category, but let’s not
split hairs, okay?
The
same thing happened with a group of children, some geese, and one or two more citizens.
He outran them all.
See?
Olympics, here we come!
But
we’ll soon see that youth and skill can always be outdone by old age and
treachery.
Truth.
The
Gingerbread man reached the bank of a wide, cold, fast river and skidded to a
stop.
Now,
lack of brains aside, he was canny enough the know that, for someone made completely
out of dough-like materials: Dry land=good. Rushing water=bad.
He
stood there in indecision for a moment.
“Why,
little boy! Whatever are you doing out here all alone?” asked a sly voice.
Ginger
turned and began to spout his now-famous speech. “Run, run…” But he petered
out.
Neither
of them were running.
The
fox—for it was a fox—was standing just
inside the tree-line. Not quite in sight. But not quite out of it, either.
He
knew he couldn’t outrun this little guy if he chose to flee.
He
would have to best him by brainpower.
And
yes, he was fighting an unarmed opponent.
“Are
you wanting to cross the river, my fine young friend?”
Okay,
I know he’s assuming Ginger’s age, but, let’s face it—how long can a cookie live?
In
my house? 0.6 seconds.
Less
for chocolate.
“Ye-es,”
Ginger responded.
“Well,
there isn’t a single bridge or a ferry for miles.”
“No?”
“But
I’ll tell you what I’ll do. Since I’m going across anyway—I have an appointment
with my medical professional—I would be totally happy to ferry you across.
“Really?
Won’t I be too heavy?”
He
looked at Ginger with his clever ‘fox’ eyes. “What do you weigh. Maybe 10
ounces? It’s no problem.”
“Ah.
Well, if you’re sure.”
“Oh,
I’m sure.”
And,
just like that, Ginger leaped up on the fox’s back.
The
fox slid carefully into the water.
At
first, all went well. The fox swam. Ginger hummed happily to himself.
Then
the water started getting deeper.
“Ummm…Mr.
Fox?”
“Ye-es?”
"The
water’s getting deeper.”
“You’d
better climb up on my head. View’s better there anyways.”
Ginger
did and discovered the fox was right! Wow! He could see so much better!
But
the water was still getting deeper.
“Erm…”
Ginger said, hesitantly.
“Say
no more my little cinnamon-flavoured friend. Climb down on my muzzle. For sure that’s not going under!”
Ginger
thought that made great sense.
Remember,
we are talking about a brain of cinnamon/sugar here.
No
sooner had he jumped down onto the fox’s muzzle and the sly Mr. Fox had gobbled
him up!
Who
didn’t see that coming?
Well,
besides Ginger…
There
are several morals here:
1. Cheekiness to one’s parents seldom ends
well.
2. When my food talks and runs away, the
last thing I’m going to do is chase it.
3. Ascertaining a rescuer’s motivation is
hard. If in doubt, stay off the snout!
Today’s post is a word challenge! Each month one of us chooses a number between 12 and 50 and the others craft a post using that number of words one or multiple times.
This month’s number is: 44
It was chosen by me!
Now go and see what my friends have created!
