A small sampling of the gingerbread cookies that Ellie and I made on Christmas Eve for her Pop and "Santa":
Raw gingerbread girls in their big-girl panties.
Gingerbread cyclops with stigmata? And possibly chest wounds?
Gingerbread angels with "some milks." I'm assuming these are angels of this variety.
(Edited to add: They were originally eyes, but the angels had narrow heads. She had to move the eyes down.)
Smallpox tragically strikes the Gingerbread community.
I love the tiny little fingerprints smooshed into the dough. These cookies were aggressively and intimately decorated, people. Only the best for Santa.
Sadly, there are no pictures of my assistant chef because she showed up for work without any pants. And every time I turned my back on the little nudist and the bowl of raw dough, she would sneak a taste. And by "taste" I mean "fist-sized wad." I scolded her a bit.
"Ellie! No more dough, OK? You could make yourself sick eating that much dough."
"You'll be sick for Christmas. You won't eat anymore?"
"I'm not eating it anymore. Ellie not eating it anymore."
I turned my back, put a cookie sheet in the oven, and turned around to discover this:
"Maaaaam, I not eating the dough. Look at dinosaur! Oh, brother, dinosaur. Heh. Cock-a-doodle."
(Editor's note: Kindly avert your eyes from the blurry, pantless child in the background. And, what with the pantlessness and questionable gingerbread content and raw egg ingesting, kindly refrain from contacting C.P.S, OK? Thanks. You're a peach. Cock-a-doodle.)