When I was a kid there was a decoration that hung on our Christmas tree that absolutely scared the bejeepers out of me every year. I was (and probably still am to some degree) a complete germ o phobe. There was this ugly (so to my sister's who might be reading this who might have made this lovely decoration) man (i suppose gingerbread guy) made out of salt dough and being a kid I couldn't understand how a cookie could stay good all those years, what with the milk and eggs in it, you know? So I hated this decoration. I was scared of it. I wanted nothing to do with it. No one ever explained to me that there was nothing in this guy to go bad. That he was purly salt and flour. Oh, the trauma that I could have been spared.
Then there was the time in, I think, grade 3 when we made salt dough in class and I was ever so proud of my creation. Tied up with it's little green twist tie I held in in my hand ever so carefully on my way home from school so it wouldn't get lost in the bottom of my backpack. I was so excited. It was winter. There was a lot of snow. I droped my salt dough off the side of the hill on the way home and it got burried under deep fluffy snow. I tried to find it. I dug. But I just couldn't. I was soooooo upset. I found my salt dough in the spring. It was soggy. I hated the smell of salt dough from that moment on.
I swept all memories of salt dough from my mind actually until a couple weeks ago and salt dough starting coming up in conversations every where- at play group, in other blogs I frequent, on my message boards. So, I took it as a sign that I needed to make salt dough.