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The Christmas markets in Aachen are famous for lebkuchen.

The messenger was Karl Heinz, a jolly red-nosed man who was spreading a gospel of German Christmases past and present: Eat lebkuchen.

“Lorissa, go play with your father,” I snapped after she asked me for the fifteenth time whether there was any lebkuchen left.

And when at last the fateful night arrived that saw his first batch of lebkuchen in the oven, he actually forgot to smoke at all!

Sometimes he would ask her, with a fine irony, if she meant to keep him waiting for his answer until her brother had made lebkuchen as good as the lebkuchen of N�rnberg?