Premanufactured. Why not?!

For the record, I neither bought nor assembled this beaut' of a gingerbread house.

And my girls loved every minute it took to put it together.

To them, it is completely normal and even fun to pull out:
1. Cardboard-like stale gingerbread.
2. Frosting, thick enough, that it would kill you on the spot, were you crazy enough to try it
3. Hard little candies that no one with a taste bud would want to try

all from the convenience of a handy-dandy box. designed to aid you in baking building a gingerbread house of your very own.

Awww. Can't you just feel the Christmas cheer just looking at the picture?

Well apparently, my husband...upon viewing said gingerbread house...felt something a tad bit different.

Shall we call it "I-want-to-one-up-you-ism"? Yes, lets! Because I'm not quite sure how else to refer to such...uh, ambition. But you be the judge. Mkay?

*clearing throat...as I prepare to relay a story that still makes me shake my head in awe and wonder*

Jet: "We should make a gingerbread CASTLE next year."

Christin: "Uh. right." I look at him and give him 'that look'. to which he smiles and returns it.

But after completely blowing him off, I try to make amends by offering: "Well, I have a baking kit to make those things."

Jet: "Castles?!"
Christin: "Well. No."

I was thinking of the Pampered Chef Stoneware Gingerbread House Baking Molds. that I have in a box in the closet.

A box that's been set aside for things I had rendered completely useless. things that would most assuredly never be used. things I unsuccessfully tried to sell on Craigslist.

And honestly? I was feeling pretty stinkin' MarthaStewart-esk just confessing that we owned such an oddity.

I mean, really...Walmart sells KITS, people. Why make it from scratch? I scoff.

But Jet wasn't impressed by my confession. Nor was he kidding...or backing down.

Jet: "No really. I could draw it up on AutoCad..."

He lost me after that. My mind went blank.

I hear when extreme shock occurs, your brain sometimes has to shut down. ignoring all stimuli, in order to remain conscious. Especially when confronting that of an excessively talented husband, who is honestly much more Martha than I will ever be.

He bakes. He sews. His poop is gold.

Next year, after my husband has successfully autocad-ed (is that even a word?) us a Gingerbread Castle, I will forever be deemed the Lesser-parent. (like many times before)

Note to self: Must track down a Gingerbread Bill Gate's Estate Making Kit. Call Costco in the morning.