The Gingerbread Scam


“Where are the gingerbread?” my friend asked. Having just arrived home from work, she was standing at the fridge looking for the fruits, or rather biscuits, of last night’s hard labour.

By way of an answer my friend’s husband proudly told her, “Our daughter is amazing.”

She was pleased to hear this. She needed some good news.

Just that morning she’d had an annoying situation where a local journalist didn’t show up to photograph her daughter with the gingerbread they’d made for a cutesy article. The stress was compounded because she’d gotten time off work that morning to make the appointment and she’d stayed up making the yummies the night before, and, worst of all, her seven year old daughter was devastated when they didn’t show up.

But it was okay. It turns out her daughter had gotten 0ver it.

And now the reporter would be here the following morning to take the photos.

“Where are my gingerbread?” she repeated more urgently. “They’re supposed to be coming tomorrow morning now to take the photos. I need them.”

“I told you,” said her husband. “Ask your daughter.”

So she did, while she set about ferreting through her pantry and fridge for ingredients. And the response she got warmed her heart and made the idea of baking for a second night in a row more tenable.

At least, initially.

“I gave them to old people,” her daughter explained. “You know how old people like to have something to eat with their cup of tea. I gave them to the old people in the street.”

My friend’s chest swelled as she hugged her daughter and exclaimed, “That’s so wonderful of you!”

“You haven’t heard the best bit yet,” said her husband.

“And I made $26!”

After a pregnant pause big enough to rival Octomum, my friend asked, “What do you mean?”

“I made $26!” repeated her daughter. She grinned for emphasis.

“You sold them? I thought you said you gave them away?”

“For money,” said her husband, like his wife was missing the important bit.

“It’s not giving them away if they’re paying for them,” my friend explained to her husband.

“I still gave them to the old people,” said the young Miss. “And they gave me money.”

So now my friend was  spending a night making two batches of gingerbread.


Well, the second batch was suddenly spoken for because several pointed questions later it turned out there was no way of knowing how much money everyone paid.

“You two,” my friend told her husband and her daughter sternly, “will go back to each and every house in this street tonight and give them more gingerbread by way of an apology. And, more importantly, you will explain to them MY MOTHER DID NOT KNOW I WAS TAKING YOUR MONEY!”

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“Raising a family on little more than laughs”

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