Gingerbread House

Sven the Second is two years old now and the most enthusiastic dog Duluth has ever produced. He cannot replace the first Sven. He does not need to. He is doing his own job — the puppy job, the joyful job, the job of taking the kitchen seriously and the squirrels in the yard much more seriously than that. He is the right dog for this period of the kitchen's life. Jakob got engaged. To a woman named Claire. They are both teachers. Jakob is twenty-eight. The wedding is in spring. I will bake the cake. The princess cake. The sacred cake. The cake of every Johansson wedding since I made it for my own wedding to Paul in 1988. I am sixty-something and I am still baking the cake. I will bake the cake at every Johansson wedding for as long as the hands work. Lena moved to Bozeman, Montana. She is a wildlife biologist now. She sends photos of bears. The photos are on the fridge. I worry. I do not say. The worry is the standard grandmotherly worry — bears, weather, men, distance. Lena is fine. Lena has always been fine. Lena is the most self-sufficient grandchild I have, and the most distant, and the one I worry about specifically because of both of those things. Julbord prep is in full force. The list is on the fridge. The pickled herring is ordered (three varieties — mustard, dill, onion — from Russ Kendall's, delivered next week). The meatballs are scheduled (Wednesday before Christmas Eve, sixteen pounds of beef and pork, the kind of cooking marathon that requires water breaks). The kitchen is at war with December and December is losing. The kitchen has been winning this war since 1990. The kitchen will win again. I cooked Pot roast this week. The dutch oven standard. Damiano Thursday: soup. The crowd was the usual size — about a hundred and twenty plates served between five and seven. Gerald and I worked side by side without talking. The not-talking was the friendship. The work has its own rhythm: ladle, hand, smile, ladle, hand, smile. The rhythm carries us through. I sat in the kitchen at 11 PM with a glass of wine and Paul's photograph. I did not cry. I just sat. The not-crying is its own form of being with him. We did not need to talk all the time when he was alive. We do not need to talk all the time now. The companionable silence has carried over. It is enough. It has to be. And on a morning like this, with the lake doing what the lake does and the dog at my feet and the bread on the counter and the kitchen warm enough to live in, it is. Paul used to say that the difference between a place and a home was that a home was a place where you knew, from any room, what was happening in any other room. I knew, from the kitchen, when he was reading in the living room. I knew, from the bedroom, when he was getting coffee in the kitchen. The Kenwood house is still that kind of home. From the kitchen I know that Sven is asleep on his bed in the dining room (the small specific snore). From the kitchen I know what time the radio in the living room is set to come on. The home is the body of knowledge of itself. I still live inside that body of knowledge, even though Paul is not the one creating most of the data anymore. It is enough.

The pot roast held the week together the way pot roasts do — low and slow and without asking anything of me — but December in this kitchen is really about the sweet things, the ones that take patience and intention and the kind of focused hand I still have. The Julbord list is long, and the meatballs and herring are scheduled, but the gingerbread house is the project that belongs to no list: it gets built because it has always been built, because the kitchen looks right with one on the counter, because Sven the Second will spend three days staring at it and never once touching it, which is more than I can say for some grandchildren. This is the recipe I come back to every year — sturdy panels, clean spice, and enough royal icing to hold whatever December throws at it.

Prep Time: 1 hour 30 min | Cook Time: 40 min | Total Time: 2 hours 10 min (plus overnight drying) | Servings: 1 house (decorative; edible panels serve 12)

Ingredients

Gingerbread Dough
3 cups all-purpose flour, plus more for rolling
1 1/2 teaspoons baking powder
3/4 teaspoon baking soda
1/4 teaspoon salt
1 tablespoon ground ginger
1 3/4 teaspoons ground cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon ground cloves
6 tablespoons unsalted butter, softened
3/4 cup packed dark brown sugar
1 large egg
1/2 cup molasses
2 tablespoons water
Royal Icing (Mortar & Decoration)
3 cups powdered sugar, sifted
2 tablespoons meringue powder
5–6 tablespoons water
Optional Decorations
Assorted hard candies, gumdrops, peppermints, and sprinkles
Pretzel sticks (for fencing or logs)
Shredded coconut (for snow)

Instructions

Make the dough. Whisk together flour, baking powder, baking soda, salt, ginger, cinnamon, and cloves in a medium bowl. In a large bowl, beat butter and brown sugar until light and fluffy, about 3 minutes. Beat in the egg, molasses, and water until combined. Gradually stir in the flour mixture until a stiff dough forms. Divide into two discs, wrap in plastic, and refrigerate at least 2 hours or overnight.
Cut your templates. Cut cardboard or parchment templates for your house panels: two rectangles approximately 5 x 7 inches for front and back (cut a triangular gable into the top of each), two rectangles 5 x 6 inches for the side walls, and two rectangles 5 x 8 inches for the roof. Cut a small door and window into the front panel if desired.
Roll and cut the panels. Preheat oven to 350°F. On a lightly floured surface, roll dough to 1/4-inch thickness. Lay templates on dough and cut around them with a sharp knife. Transfer panels carefully to parchment-lined baking sheets. Re-roll scraps to cut extra pieces or decorative cookies.
Bake. Bake panels for 12–15 minutes, until edges are just set and the dough is firm but not dark. Larger panels may need 15–18 minutes. Do not underbake — soft panels will not hold the house. Let cool on the baking sheet for 5 minutes, then transfer to a wire rack and cool completely (at least 1 hour).
Make the royal icing. Beat powdered sugar, meringue powder, and 5 tablespoons water with a hand or stand mixer on medium-high speed until stiff, glossy peaks form, 3–5 minutes. Add water a teaspoon at a time if needed. The icing should hold a stiff line. Transfer to a piping bag or a zip-lock bag with a small corner snipped.
Assemble the walls. Pipe a thick line of royal icing along the bottom edge and one side edge of the front panel. Press a side wall firmly against it and hold for 60 seconds. Repeat to attach the back panel and remaining side wall, working on a sturdy cake board or baking sheet lined with parchment. Pipe icing into all interior seams for extra strength. Allow the walls to dry and set for at least 30 minutes before adding the roof.
Attach the roof. Pipe a generous line of icing along the top edges of all four walls and both gable peaks. Lay the roof panels in place, holding each for 60–90 seconds, and pipe additional icing along the roof ridge to seal. Allow to dry at least 1 hour, or ideally overnight, before decorating.
Decorate. Use remaining royal icing as glue to attach candies, pretzels, and sprinkles. Pipe icicles from the eaves, press gumdrops along the roofline, and dust the finished house lightly with powdered sugar for a snow effect. Scatter shredded coconut around the base.

Nutrition (per serving, dough panels only, 1/12 of total)

Gingerbread House — Built for a Kitchen That Wins Every December