Simon Wilson
The General of the Gingerbread Army
In retirement I am confining myself to the less demanding items—muffins, biscuits, scones. It is enough. Once I made bread but arthritic fingers ache so much after all the kneading. Using a mixer, before you ask, would miss the point. Today I am making biscuits for a local event. Gingerbread men with smiling faces.
I roll the dough, cut the shapes, line up the men in ranks and files, bake. Later I remove them from the oven and lay them out on cooling racks. A lifetime’s accumulation of memories is reduced to snippets—poppies, row on row … the grand old Duke of York …. cooking with my grandmother…
Eventually, with a crowded work surface, I ice the faces. Two eyes, a smile. Every so often I ice one with a sad and downturned mouth. Sometimes a mistimed movement, or a trick of the icing, produces a sneer, a snarl, or even a duelling scar. All those stories in a batch of biscuits. As I finish the row, I notice one has lost a leg, a tragedy for the soldier, but a bonus for the cook.
my mother
missing from the dream
both my parents busy
giving their children what
they thought we should have
About the Author
Simon Wilson has been a poultry farmer, salesman, antique dealer, gardener, and instructor on a Care Farm. He now works in a coin shop and wishes he had tried harder at school.