Gingerbread for breakfast

I have started working on the second entry telling you about our bus trip, but it's tedious and I need a break from all the picture-loading and link-searching.  So I'm here now to make a confession:  I had gingerbread for breakfast today WITH whipped cream.  Not Cool Whip, but real whipped cream; as real as you can get in the store, anyway.  I've lived with cream from Jersey cows most of my life, so it's hard to believe the store-bought stuff is genuine, although I know it is.

I have been wanting gingerbread with whipped cream for ages, but that isn't Cliff's favorite.  For the first few years of our marriage, if Cliff didn't like something I cooked, he didn't tell me.  That's my fault, since I took it as a personal affront, even criticism, when he told me.  It was a long time before I was mature enough to let him tell me the foods he would rather not be served, but eventually he found out it was safe to be honest with me... at least, about food.  He doesn't hate it, but if there's any other dessert around, he'll pass on the gingerbread.  So I stopped making gingerbread.  By the way, Toll House cookies aren't his favorite either, but I didn't stop making those because most everybody else in the family loves them.  As for the gingerbread, nobody seemed to miss it, so I deleted it from my life.

For some reason gingerbread with whipped cream came to mind a few months ago and has haunted my imaginings ever since, but we are both trying not to let our weight get out of control, and Cliff doesn't like it.  I'm surprised I haven't actually had dreams about gingerbread.  

Our daughter and her husband come to visit, most Tuesday evenings.  I don't fix supper for them because Cliff and I don't eat an actual meal in the evenings, and if I fixed them something, Cliff wouldn't be able to resist.  However, when my daughter and I messaged, she said they wanted to come and bring their daughter and her new baby:  She asked if I could cook something, but said if I didn't want to, they'd get a pizza on the way home from work.  I figured Cliff and I could break with the usual routine once, and told her I'd make sausage-and-corn-bread squares, simple fare that's easy to make.  Most all the family members like it.  At my age, if they didn't, I wouldn't much care.  I stopped carrying folks on a chip a long time ago.  Entitlement stops at my house.  

But I digress.  People coming for a meal means someone will eat dessert if I make it.  I found a gingerbread recipe that sounded like my old one but made a smaller amount than in the old days, using a 9X9" pan rather than 9X13.  When it was done I took a bite from the corner of the pan and knew I'd hit pay-dirt.  When it was almost time for the group to arrive, I whipped a cup of cream.  

Dreams DO come true.  I didn't eat any of the sausage-corn-bread; I had a big piece of gingerbread with whipped cream on top for supper.  WOW, it was as good as I remembered!  Cliff asked me whether I'd be mad if he had a piece, what with his history of not liking it.  I told him to go ahead, which he did.  He had no comment afterward, so I assume it still isn't his favorite.  The son-in-law, on the other hand, not only ate a piece, but asked if I'd mind if he took a piece for his lunch in the morning.  This raised his status in my book by two points.  

This morning there was half a bowl of whipped cream left in the refrigerator.  I found the biggest piece of gingerbread, dropped it in the bowl, and ate all that with a smile on my face and a cup of coffee by my side.  I wish I'd taken a picture, but your mental image of me with my gingerbread will have to do.  

I'm sharing a picture taken last night of me with my newest great-grandbaby.  I apologize for the high-water breeches I was wearing:  In January I must have had a premonition that the coming several months would be harsh ones, because I bought some men's flannel-lined jeans when stores first started putting winter clothes on clearance.  Unfortunately, there wasn't a lot of choice on the leg length of the remaining Carhartts.  No matter, I figured.  I wouldn't be wearing them anywhere except at home.  

A Bible verse comes to mind:  "For nothing is secret that shall not be made manifest; neither any thing hid that shall not be known and come abroad."

And now the whole Internet has access to a picture of me in my too-short jeans.  Notice Gabe trying to check out the baby.  He wasn't jealous, just curious.  Probably he was thinking, "Hey, this seems like another kid.  I like kids.  Why isn't it running, like the one that is always hanging around does?"