Gingerbread Memories, By Kelly Jarvis

Editor’s note: This sweet essay on gingerbread and the sweet memories it creates made it a perfect fit for EC. I know you’ll enjoy this great read.

When I was a little girl, a gingerbread house arrived in the mail each year just after Thanksgiving, sent by two great aunts from my father’s faraway side of the family. My parents would set the gingerbread house down in the middle of the table after Sunday dinner, and we would take turns breaking off pieces of the roof and window panes, strategically releasing the most coveted bits of candy. It always seemed a solemn activity, the slow deconstruction of the beautiful gift sent by the mysterious spinster aunts we had never met, but we nibbled away at the house like little mice, feasting upon gumdrop bushes and toffee shingles until all of our late November memories were sweetened by a sugary glaze of royal icing. 

Gingerbread houses sweeten our cultural memories as well, and the most famous gingerbread house arrives on our literary doorstep wrapped in a German fairy tale. This semester, I set the story of Hansel and Gretel down in the center of my classroom and watched as my college students consumed it, breaking off quotations to use as evidence in their papers about famine, tricksters, and collaborative siblings. Although the fairy tale is defined by the Aarne-Thompson-Uther index as a story about abandoned children who encounter a malevolent creature in the woods, it is the gingerbread house which acts as a visual shorthand for the tale, and it is the gingerbread house which held my students’ imaginations captive.  

Having remembered elaborate illustrations of the house from their own childhood encounters with Hansel and Gretel, my students were surprised to learn that the Brothers Grimm describe only a house “made of bread” with a roof “made of cake and the windows of sparkling sugar”. Each artist who has illustrated the tale since the Grimm publication has added delicious detail to the architecture of the house, and generations of readers have eagerly gobbled up the candy-coated pictures.

Some histories of gingerbread explore the odd intersection of witch houses and the Christmas season by investigating the Scandinavian tradition of baking gingerbread houses to celebrate St. Lucy’s Day, a Christian holiday with connections to pagan solstice celebrations when trolls and witches roamed wild. Still other histories trace the movement of gingerbread to America where a softer version of the delicacy was popularized by George Washington’s mother, Mary Bell Washington.  

Long before it was baked into bread, ginger was used to season food and drinks. It is known to heal an upset stomach, stop nightmares, and inspire passion. Gingerbread has been given as love tokens, shaped into seasonal symbols, sold outside of churches, and worn as talismans for protection against evil spirits. The versatile dough can be molded into cabins or castles, and its magic spice is said to warm the heart and soul of the people who eat it. Gingerbread is both food and art, giving us the sustenance we need to survive and the creative spark we need to make our lives worth living. 

Fairy tale gingerbread can build more than houses, as we learn from the magical folk tale “The Gingerbread Man.” In the most popular version of the story, first printed in the 1875 issue of St. Nicholas Magazine, an old woman who longs for a child bakes one out of gingerbread only to have him run away from everyone who tries to catch him. When my son read the story in kindergarten, his teacher donned a gingerbread man suit and led the children on a wild chase through the hallways of the school. Kindergarten students are not the only ones to have such fun with their food. The creation of gingerbread men dates all the way back to the English court of Queen Elizabeth I who had her royal bakers transform dough into the likeness of foreign dignitaries to entertain her guests, as explained in this history of the confection in Time magazine. 

One cold November day after my son had read the story of “The Gingerbread Man,” we watched a television show featuring professional bakers competing in a gingerbread house contest, a tradition still popular today. We were in awe as they baked life-sized sheets of gingerbread, decorating their houses with sugar spun so fine it glistened like stained glass. Inspired by the show, we decided to do some baking of our own. We poured over pictures like the ones found here. We dug out my grandmother’s recipe for gingerbread men and shaped the dough into stars of various sizes, stacking them up to form simple gingerbread trees. We whipped up batches of white frosting, swirling it into drifts of edible snow.  

Sadly, our dough was too thick, our icing was too thin, and it wasn’t long before my three young sons were chasing each other around the kitchen, leaving molasses fingerprints on the cabinets and trailing clouds of powdered sugar behind them. Still, my memories of that precious Christmas season are permeated by the glorious scent of my grandmother’s gingerbread which lingered in the air long after our tiny cake creations had collapsed. My sons tower over me now, ready to run like gingerbread men as fast as they can into adolescence and adulthood, but when I close my eyes in the November twilight and inhale the spicy smell of ginger mixed with cinnamon, I can still feel the sticky warmth of their little boy kisses brushing against my cheek. 

Late November is a time of darkness, a time of thankfulness, a time for gingerbread houses. Gingerbread houses are a lot like families; they are painstakingly built, glued together with the sweet icing of childhood memories, and they are meant to withstand gentle deconstruction, for it is only in the splintering that the most coveted bits of candy are revealed. When my sons grow up and venture out into the forest, I hope that they will stuff their pockets with sugary chunks of memory broken off from the home we have built together. I hope each gumdrop bite will bring them happiness and sweeten their lives with treasured recollections of time gone by. And most of all, I hope that beneath each frosted candy memory that bursts upon their tongues, my boys will taste the magic spice of love which transforms their sturdy slabs of gingerbread into talismans of protection that they can carry with them to warm their hearts and souls.

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Bio: Kelly Jarvis teaches classes in literature, writing, and fairy tale at Central Connecticut State University, The University of Connecticut, and Tunxis Community College. She lives, happily ever after, with her husband and three sons in a house filled with fairy tale books.

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Images, in order, by Charles Folkard and Otto Kugel.

Rumpelstiltskin, By Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm

Editor's note: Poor old Rumpelstiltskin. In my book, he was more sinned against than sinning. He always just seemed like a lonely guy who wanted a child -- and really, how great would the greedy king and thoughtless miller's daughter be as parents? And the miller? A dolt. Everyone knows that you do not, do not, try to gain the attention of the greedy and powerful -- unless you are attempting a palace coup.

The miller was not up to anything like a palace takeover, but in any case, the brag about his daughter's alleged ability to spin straw into gold sets the whole story of "Rumpelstiltskin" motion. 

The king, even for a figure of power in a fairy tale, is notably greedy and cruel. Not only does he want all the gold he can get (which, admittedly, is a pretty common failing), but he threatens her with death if she fails to produce. The miller, meanwhile, is not seen to throw himself at the feet of the kind, begging for mercy for his daughter.

The miller's daughter is pretty vacant, in this version of the tale, and this version is a standard text. All she can do is cry. Then, she ultimately promises away one of the things the king would most want from her: His future child. Granted, she is scared, but surely, a man who would kill a woman who couldn't spin straw into gold would also kill her if she gave away his child -- but he'd probably torture her first. Perhaps she needed to think harder.

Rumpel is the only decent person in the story. He even gives the "heroine" a chance to keep her baby by guessing his name. And she cheats.

But you know that, because you already know the story. The Brothers Grimm version below is from 1922. 

What do you think of my surly take on this story? I say, "Team Rumpel!"

Charles Robinson

There was once a poor Miller who had a beautiful daughter, and one day, having to go to speak with the King, he said, in order to make himself appear of consequence, that he had a daughter who could spin straw into gold. The King was very fond of gold, and thought to himself, "That is an art which would please me very well"; and so he said to the Miller, "If your daughter is so very clever, bring her to the castle in the morning, and I will put her to the proof."

As soon as she arrived the King led her into a chamber which was full of straw; and, giving her a wheel and a reel, he said, "Now set yourself to work, and if you have not spun this straw into gold by an early hour to-morrow, you must die." With these words he shut the room door, and left the maiden alone.

There she sat for a long time, thinking how to save her life; for she understood nothing of the art whereby straw might be spun into gold; and her perplexity increased more and more, till at last she began to weep.

All at once the door opened, and in stepped a little Man, who said, "Good evening, fair maiden; why do you weep so sore?"

"Ah," she replied, "I must spin this straw into gold, and I am sure I do not know how."

Anne Anderson

 The little Man asked, "What will you give me if I spin it for you?"

"My necklace," said the maiden.

The Dwarf took it, placed himself in front of the wheel, and whirr, whirr, whirr, three times round, and the bobbin was full. Then he set up another, and whir, whir, whir, thrice round again, and a second bobbin was full; and so he went all night long, until all the straw was spun, and the bobbins were full of gold. At sunrise the King came, very much astonished to see the gold; the sight of which gladdened him, but did not make his heart less covetous. He caused the maiden to be led into another room, still larger, full of straw; and then he bade her spin it into gold during the night if she valued her life. The maiden was again quite at a loss what to do; but while she cried the door opened suddenly, as before, and the Dwarf appeared and asked her what she would give him in return for his assistance. "The ring off my finger," she replied. The little Man took the ring and began to spin at once, and by morning all the straw was changed to glistening gold. The King was rejoiced above measure at the sight of this, but still he was not satisfied, but, leading the maiden into another still larger room, full of straw as the others, he said, "This you must spin during the night; but if you accomplish it you shall be my bride." "For," thought he to himself, "a richer wife thou canst not have in all the world."

Charles Folkard

When the maiden was left alone, the Dwarf again appeared and asked, for the third time, "What will you give me to do this for you?"

"I have nothing left that I can give you," replied the maiden.

"Then promise me your first-born child if you become Queen," said he.

John Gruelle

The Miller's daughter thought, "Who can tell if that will ever happen?" and, ignorant how else to help herself out of her trouble, she promised the Dwarf what he desired; and he immediately set about and finished the spinning. When morning came, and the King found all he had wished for done, he celebrated his wedding, and the Miller's fair daughter became Queen.

The gay times she had at the King's Court caused her to forget that she had made a very foolish promise.
About a year after the marriage, when she had ceased to think about the little Dwarf, she brought a fine child into the world; and, suddenly, soon after its birth, the very man appeared and demanded what she had promised. The frightened Queen offered him all the riches of the kingdom if he would leave her her child; but the Dwarf answered, "No; something human is dearer to me than all the wealth of the world."

The Queen began to weep and groan so much that the Dwarf pitied her, and said, "I will leave you three days to consider; if you in that time discover my name you shall keep your child."

AH Watson

All night long the Queen racked her brains for all the names she could think of, and sent a messenger through the country to collect far and wide any new names. The following morning came the Dwarf, and she began with "Caspar," "Melchior," "Balthassar," and all the odd names she knew; but at each the little Man exclaimed, "That is not my name." The second day the Queen inquired of all her people for uncommon and curious names, and called the Dwarf "Ribs-of-Beef," "Sheep-shank," "Whalebone," but at each he said, "This is not my name." The third day the messenger came back and said, "I have not found a single name; but as I came to a high mountain near the edge of a forest, where foxes and hares say good night to each other, I saw there a little house, and before the door a fire was burning, and round this fire a very curious little Man was dancing on one leg, and shouting:

Warwick Goble

"'To-day I stew, and then I'll bake,

To-morrow I shall the Queen's child take;
Ah! how famous it is that nobody knows
That my name is Rumpelstiltskin.'"

When the Queen heard this she was very glad, for now she knew the name; and soon after came the Dwarf, and asked, "Now, my lady Queen, what is my name?"

First she said, "Are you called Conrade?" "No."

"Are you called Hal?" "No."

"Are you called Rumpelstiltskin?"

"A witch has told you! a witch has told you!" shrieked the little Man, and stamped his right foot so hard in the ground with rage that he could not draw it out again. Then he took hold of his left leg with both his hands, and pulled away so hard that his right came off in the struggle, and he hopped away howling terribly. And from that day to this the Queen has heard no more of her troublesome visitor.

Kay Nielsen