Gingerbread Dinosaurs Facing Extinction!

I love to cook.  I am even pretty good at it.  And baking is really my thing.  But biscuits are another thing altogether.  For some reason, baking biscuits just does not come easily.

So of course, baking biscuits with a 3 year old assistant and a 1 year old supervisor would be really easy, wouldn’t it?

My kitchen is the size of a shoe box.  Not a boot box, or the kind of box that men’s shoes come in; much closer to to the size of box that children’s first shoes come in and you later use for storing farm set pieces.  My littlest LO is going through that delightful stage where, if it opens, he opens it; if it can be emptied, he does.  He is great fun roaming around the kitchen.  My big LO loves to help, so it was no surprise to hear the familiar sound of a chair scraping towards the kitchen, already beautifully decorated with scattered salad servers and chopsticks and egg-rings.

And then the biscuit dough was S-T-I-F-F.  I had made pepparkarkor at Christmas and frozen extra batches of the dough, but with the current cold weather I had trouble getting it malleable enough to roll.

So there I was.  I was working in, at most, a metre of benchspace;  my left shoulder was pinned against the pre-heating oven door;  my baby was opening the under-oven drawers into my knees, desperately trying to remove the contents;  my 3yo, with his chair against my right knee, leaning against my right arm, was walking dinosaur biscuit cutters over the bench, roaring.  And I was struggling desperately with the biscuit dough, working up a sweat and wondering how I would ever get them baked before mothers’ group.

Suddenly in my frazzled state I stopped.  I looked at the chaos and saw the colour in the salad servers on the floor.  Those dinosaurs were having a great time stomping about.  And my two little boys were having the best time of all “cooking”.  Now THAT is why I am a Mum.  To create moments like this for them.

I redirected the little one to another drawer.  The dinosaurs explored the sink.  I finally battled that confounded dough into something sort of flat and thin.  My big boy helped cut them out and decorated them with the sugar I had coloured.

They were so delicious they nearly didn’t make it to mothers’ group.  And despite my two proud helpers, there were none left to take to Nana’s the next day.

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