Lebkuchen

The story

Nuremberg has been called the "gingerbread city" for centuries, and not by accident. It sat at a crossroads of medieval trade routes along which spices arrived from Venice: cinnamon, cloves, nutmeg, all as precious as gold. Monks, and later the guilds of gingerbread bakers (Lebküchner), took advantage of the honey-rich forests nearby and developed a dough that, unlike ordinary bread, could be kept for months, a valuable trait in an age when food could not be frozen. Elisenlebkuchen, a luxurious, nearly flourless version once meant for wealthier townspeople, is still made from old recipes and carries a protected name. Lebkuchen comes in dozens of forms: round with a wafer on the bottom, heart-shaped with a message piped in icing, packed in tins decorated with scenes of the city. It is almost never baked at home at the last minute but bought ahead of time because, like stollen, it softens and improves as it sits. For immigrant families, Lebkuchen was often the first "smell of Christmas," the one that rose the moment a box sent from the old country was opened.