Classic Christmas Gingerbread Cookies

The smell of gingerbread belongs on my list of defining, signature, so-personal-they-feel-like-they-belong-to-me scents. I am a fragrance person; my favorite compliment to receive is that I smell good (and I do, thankyouverymuch) and I feel almost personally affronted when I find that someone else wears my signature scent. Sometimes, I think my work as a floral designer is simply an outlet for my fragrance obsession. Like everyone, I have those fragrances that I am deeply attached to, even possessive of. There is scented geranium—the very first fragrance I remember from the very first box of flowers I opened on my very first day in business. Orange blossom, light and intoxicating. Jasmine, especially night-blooming jasmine. Vanilla, in every form, but especially baking vanilla. Stephanotis. And yes, I’m a musk and sandalwood and patchouli girl. Then there is that symphony of Christmas spices—cinnamon, clove, allspice, ginger— all of which feel like the essence of childhood, home, and love. I like these spices folded in molasses and baked into a cookie or a devastatingly thick, rich slab of gingerbread cake. Gingerbread is the fragrance of Christmas and it is really, really my thing.

Hence these cookies. Don’t they just fill your heart with Christmas? They do mine. They’re traditional in every way but chic enough for a great flat lay. They’re rustic in the ‘alpine chic’ or ‘mountain elegance’ sense of the word. I know gingerbread hails from Germany, but these little cookies really work with my whole Scandi Modern Christmas aesthetic (just add wooden chairs, fur throws, and one Christmas tree hanging from the ceiling). They will fill your home with beautiful spices. They look and taste wonderfully simple, even childlike. They will feel nostalgic in (hopefully) the best possible way.

As I baked these, the fragrance brought up so many memories, as fragrances always do.

A beautiful Christmas fragrance—or song or place or passage–reminds us of simpler, or lovelier times. For me, gingerbread reminds me of a time when I didn’t obsess about calories or carbs or body image. I sort of pair up memories of gingerbread cake with the small window of time in my life before those worries set in. I can remember finishing early morning ice skating practice—and really truly loving skating as an artistic outlet, rather than treating it as a punishing training regime– and going to breakfast afterwards. I would slip on a little fur jacket, put on a sparkly lip gloss, and order what I wanted, usually gingerbread. That gingerbread cake is a fixture in my memory, with a warm vanilla drizzle. It’s true, I may be conflating or misremembering the event—memories are fragile and often untrustworthy— it may very well have been a croissant rather than a gingerbread cake. Nevertheless, I associate gingerbread with uncomplicated happiness. With eating for joy, without unnecessary fear or restriction. With early mornings and frozen ice rinks and a kind of freedom. Gingerbread is a soothing reminder, a comfort.

I believe in making things a little more beautiful than they need to be. In setting aside a little time for something lovely. Believe me, I know that the holidays, and especially activities like these, can create unnecessary pressure. There is always the need to bake, make, buy, decorate, and create beauty, at a time when it’s most difficult to do so. Sometimes all the joy and merriment (or the pressure to feel joyful and merry) intensifies feelings of loneliness. But usually, doing something beautiful like this—just baking a tray of gingerbread, and creating a pretty table—lifts me out of my doldrums. It connects me with my past and with the beauty and richness of my present. It creates an atmosphere of beauty and maybe even calm.

I love creating a beautiful home; a place worth remembering and even longing for. And sometimes there is nothing as beautiful as a home full of gingerbread spices, a table filled with candles and evergreens. A place to pray and rest and hope and love in.

I delight in these everyday moments when I can create and pray and simply be. Creativity, in even a supremely humble form, has a way of returning me to myself, and to God’s love. I know that this life, my life, is infused with God’s Presence. I know that I can find Him whenever I still myself, and make a place for His unfailing love. This everyday life of schedules and comings and goings is absolutely radiant with the love and abiding Presence of the Lord. These days are full of His heavenly glory. What is unseen is greater than what is seen; more real and rock solid by far. And whether this Christmas finds me rejoicing or deeply sad, His eternity for me is perfect. I experience glimmers of it even now, when He meets me in the stillness of my heart. Sometimes I just have to be still enough to experience them.

May you find a refuge this Christmas—in your home, certainly, and your Christmas traditions—but above all in His sheltering love. He is a refuge. He is here with us. Pour out your longings to Him. Take time to do that which inspires your soul to hope—for hope is your birthright in Christ and it has certainly not left.

The following recipe is reprinted from and courtesy of The Kitchen Paper. Be sure to follow them on Instagram at @thekitchenpaper!

• 3 cups all-purpose flour
• 1/2 tsp salt
• 1 Tbsp ground ginger
• 2 tsp ground cinnamon
• 1/4 tsp ground cloves
• 6 Tbsp unsalted butter, room temperature
• 3/4 cup dark brown sugar
• 1 large egg
• 1/2 cup molasses (unsulphured is best, DO NOT use blackstrap)
• 2 tsp vanilla
• 1 tsp finely grated lemon zest (optional)
• 1–3 tsp milk ONLY IF NEEDED*

instructions

1. Preheat the oven to 375 F.
2. Whisk the flour, salt, and spices together in a bowl. Set aside.
3. In the bowl of a stand mixer, cream the butter and sugar until they’ve just come together (we don’t want them too light and fluffy).
4. Add the egg, and mix until incorporated.
5. Add the molasses, vanilla, and lemon zest (if using). Mix until incorporated.
6. Slowly mix in the flour mixture until your dough forms. If your dough is remarkably dry (this can happen depending on how you measure your flour), add 1 tsp of milk at a time until it comes together but is not wet/sticky.
7. Roll out on a lightly floured surface to 1/4″ thickness. Bake on a parchment lined baking sheet for 8-9 minutes.
8. If you’re not immediately making the cookies, wrap the dough in plastic wrap and refrigerate (or freeze) until you are ready to use it. Before using, bring to room temperature.

notes

*Depending on how you measure flour, the amount that ends up in your recipe could greatly differ from mine. I whisk my flour, then gently scoop and level. If you end up with a really dry mixture at the end, I’d guess you have more flour than I do — just add TINY amounts of milk until it comes together, being careful not to over-do it.