Gingerbread men and I have a long history. As a young child my mom would always take my sister and I to Ogilvy’s in Montreal at Christmas time. Standing outside in front of their Christmas window with its mechanical Steiff animals we watched in awe and fascination as the animal folk went about their daily chores such as baking bread, sweeping the walk, and carting things about. Eventually we would tear ourselves away, pass through the front doors and take one of the gated elevators run by young women in white gloves and tartan kilts to an upper floor. Once there, we would join the assembled crowd of children to watch Ogilvy’s entertaining puppet shows, while sipping milk and nibbling first the legs, then the arms of a gingerbread man.
In those days there weren’t any gingerbread ladies. Such cookie cutters were yet to come. By the time my children came along, they had their choice of men or women to devour. When my sons were in middle school I went traditional and made gingerbread men for the annual Christmas Concert bake sale to raise funds for the band. Each gingerbread fellow was decorated with royal icing, had a cinnamon heart, and was wrapped in his own little bag tied with ribbon and festooned with a tiny candy cane.
At a church rummage sale a couple of years ago, I stumbled across the vintage cookie cutter pictured here. It was love at first sight. I’m not sure what era he belongs to, maybe the forties? But, oh my, he is charming! And he gets a cinnamon heart as well when I bake him.
