Gingerbread
By Courser
Rating:  G
Spoilers: None
Pairings: None
Summary:  Um, someone's making gingerbread
Disclaimer:  Don't own 'em, never will.  If I did, well, now that would
be a different story, now wouldn't it.... 

+++++

He'd carefully calibrated the fussy old gas oven and assembled the
ingredients
on the counter before him.  The cookie sheets were bent and scorched,
but resurrected by a fresh sheet aluminum foil and judicious use of a
hammer.  He'd reviewed the recipe several times and was sure he understood
the basics.  He could do this, he'd been watching it done since he was
a child.  And it was for children that he did this now.  All right, time
to begin.  

Oversized dishtowel tied around his waist, he measured and combined and
stirred.  His companion watched solemnly from a safe distance as
consistency
and moisture content were evaluated and adjusted.  When perfection was
reached, the dough was turned out onto the countertop and rolled out
with a convenient can of spaghetti sauce, leaving an interesting pattern
of indentations.  The man frowned.  Poked at the grooves with his fingers,
then rolled some more.	When the proper thickness was achieved, he reached
for a flimsy metal silhouette.	Pressed it into the dough.  And again,
and again.  Repeated until there was no room for more.	He gathered up
the selvage and transferred the shapes to a cookie sheet, then rolled
out more dough again.  This time he made the cuts with a different shape.
The process was repeated until no more shapes could be made.  Phase one
was complete.  

Tiny silver beads, made of sugar, became eyes and buttons, each one
pressed
precisely into the dough.  Using a drinking straw, a hole was made at
the top of one type of figure, and in the middle of the other type. 
Looking over his handiwork, he slid the a tray into the oven, then removed
his wristwatch, propping it on the counter so he could watch the time.
When the precise shade of golden brown had been achieved, he noted the
time, removed the tray and replaced it with another.  While waiting for
the next batch to bake, he prepared a thick paste of sugar, milk, vanilla
and butter.  Separating the paste into several batches, he tinted them
red, green, and the third he left unchanged.  Consulting his watch, he
exchanged trays again and again until all the figures were done. 

Taking his project to the card table in what served as a dining area,
he began Phase 3.  One figure slipped off the table and fell to the floor,
breaking into pieces.  

"Oh, dear." He bent and picked up the broken bits, relieved that he'd
had the foresight to plan for such mishaps. 

No sense in the sweet going to waste, he thought as he popped a piece
into his mouth.  Perfection.  Just the right combination of crisp, sweet
and crumbly.  He smiled to himself and then at his companion, now sitting
expectantly nearby.   

"Oh, all right.  Here," he shared his treat with his friend, who gobbled
up his pieces quickly. 

He spooned the colored icings into waxed paper cones and snipped off
the tips.  Each gingerbread person was decorated with care, each one
different from the others, then set aside, making room for the next.
After the people were done, he moved on to the gingerbread wolves.  Well,
they weren't actually wolves, exactly, more like coyotes, heads thrown
back howling, but close enough for the purpose at hand.  At this point,
he occasionally conferred with his companion on his choices.  They weren't
always in complete agreement. 

"I can't see how that makes any difference, you can't see color anyway."
The man finally said and settled the argument.	

His companion had no appreciation of the more subtle aspects of
surrealism.
He shrugged and finished piping icing onto the last few wolves.  That
phase completed, it was now time for the fourth and final part. 
Consulting
the clock, he was dismayed to discover that most of his day had been
spent on this project.	He hadn't remembered how time consuming it had
been.  Or tedious, if he were honest with himself.  By the time he'd
finished with the last of the gingerbread people and wolves, his
imagination
had been taxed to its limit and he'd had to use variants on designs he'd
already employed.  

The only thing left to do was to thread ribbon through the holes and
knot it.  Each gingerbread person and wolf would be ready to decorate
a Christmas tree.  His blunt fingers were fatigued and sore by the time
he'd finished.	Apparently a child's small fingers were much better suited
to the fine work.  Or a woman's he reminded himself.  

Finally finished, he stood up and examined his handiwork.  All in all
a very passable job. When he'd offered to bring cookies to the Christmas
party at the 27th Precinct he was quite sure that this wasn't what they
had in mind.  This year, the Precinct had sponsored an orphanage and
was providing the Christmas party and gifts for the children.  His gift,
White Fang by Jack London already sat wrapped by the door.   He'd loved
Jack London as a boy and hoped it would captivate another child with
its exotic locales and characters.  The sisters had assured him that
it would, though they were generally grateful for almost any contribution
and he hoped they hadn't been dissembling.  

Retrieving his watch from the kitchen counter, he was again dismayed
by the time.  If he didn't hurry, he wouldn't be ready when Ray came
to pick him up.  He packed the cookies into a large box he'd secured
for the purpose, then rolled down his sleeves, tied his tie and removed
his makeshift apron, inspecting himself for any spots.	Finally he put
on his brown serge coat and buckled his Sam Browne.  Settling his Stetson
squarely on his head, he balanced box and book, and gave his companion
a meaningful look. The look was returned, but said companion made no
move to join him.  

"What's the matter, now?" the man asked in a slightly irritated tone.

His friend gave a soft whimper and stared at him with sad eyes.  After
all, it was Christmas.	

"Oh, all right, if you insist," the man capitulated and setting down
his burdens, extracted one gingerbread person and one gingerbread wolf
from the box. 

"How about these?" displaying his choices and was rewarded with a joyful
yip. 

He hung the edible ornaments on their small christmas tree, while his
companion watched approvingly 

"All right then, are you ready?" the man inquired, picking up his parcels
again.	

Diefenbaker trotted happily out the door and waited at the top of the
stairs.  Fraser soon followed, their timing ideal.   A bottle-green Buick
Riviera was pulling up to the curb as they stepped out the door.  The
rich spice scent of the cookies contrasted sharply with the cold winter
smells of Chicago.  While it wasn't as open or even as cold as his home,
the smell of cinnamon and ginger on the winter air always felt like
Christmas...and
friends. 

The End