It’s not the lights nor the garlands on the stairs that signifies the start of Christmas, at least not for me. When my mom has our helpers bring out the baking utensils from the cabinets and the aroma of gingerbread wafts out of the kitchen, that’s when I know that for the Dado family, the holiday season has begun.
I can’t remember how old I was when my mom first started making gingerbread men come late November, but those little brown cookies have always been a part of my childhood, like my pink-and-purple bike except seasonal. As soon as the first batch of gingerbread men came out of the oven, she’d put one of the cookies on a plate and place it on the table. Then she’d bring out a picture book of the story of the gingerbread man and read it to my sister and I. The story, in case you don’t know, is about a baker who bakes a gingerbread man for him and his wife. Somehow the gingerbread man comes to life, realizes his creator’s plans for him, and runs away. Everyone in town tries to eat him but he just keeps evading them until finally, a sly wolf tricks him into walking right into his jaws.
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