The Gingerbread House That Grew

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The story

Grandmother tells of the Christmas she baked a gingerbread house for the church bazaar, and every night it grew a new room, with tiny lit windows, tiny furniture and a tiny wreath on the door, until the whole village queued in the snow to peek inside. Nobody could explain the smell of tiny roasting chestnuts or the tiny carols at midnight.

How it begins

Come closer, sweetheart, and pull the blanket up to your chin. Let me tell you about the Christmas I baked a gingerbread house for the church bazaar, back when your great-grandmother still wore her silver hair in a bun and the village still had a proper snowfall every December. I was not a fancy baker, but I had a good recipe, a stiff bag of royal icing, and a great deal of pride. I built the house with four walls, a steep roof, and a door no bigger than my hand. I hung a little wreath of green sugar on it, and I set it on a board by the…