Yesterday morning I made gingerbread. It was a whole grain version, not super-sweet, so paired with a cup of coffee it made a lovely breakfast. Sarah, however, had spent the night with her Mike and Mumsy, so she was not home to enjoy said gingerbread when it came out of the oven. When I woke her up for church this morning, I told her there was gingerbread for breakfast. She grew very excited and eagerly headed toward the table. I brought her a glass of orange juice and a piece of the gingerbread. She stared at it in consternation, then looked up at me. "I don't want a brownie for breakfast!" she exclaimed.
"It's not a brownie," I assured her. "It's gingerbread."
"No, that's not for breakfast! That's for dessert," she protested. "I want other gingerbread! Not a brownie!"
I didn't know what "other" gingerbread she meant, so I said again that this wasn't a brownie--it was gingerbread. Furthermore, it was the ONLY gingerbread we had.
"But I want it like a man!" she all but wailed. And then it clicked. It's been awhile, but we've read the story of The Little Gingerbread Man many times. So when I said gingerbread, that was her frame of reference.
She never would eat that gingerbread; she ended up with cereal for breakfast. Maybe after supper, this "brownie" can be her dessert. Sigh.