Adventures with Waffles (5 page)

A
lmost all the grown-ups in our area sing in the mixed choir. A mixed choir, according to Dad, is a choir in which everyone is mixed together, both those who can sing and those who can’t. Dad is the conductor and tries to get them to sing as nicely as possible. In summer, our mixed choir goes off and meets other mixed choirs at a choral festival. Then they all mix together in chorus and sing for a whole weekend. The choral festival is so much fun that everyone in our mixed choir looks forward to it for weeks in advance.

As for the children, we also look forward to it, because all the grown-ups except for Grandpa are away for a whole weekend, and Mom declares a state of emergency in Mathildewick Cove. This summer it would be extra crazy, as Minda and Magnus were going to be away at camp at the same time as the festival. There would be only the little ones and Grandpa left in the whole cove.

“It’s going to be a sight to behold,” Grandpa said, chortling when he found out.

“Lars, my dear, that’s what worries me,” grumbled Mom, who was wondering whether to drop the whole choral festival, out of sheer anxiety at what we might get up to while they were away. Lena, on the other hand, thought it was terrific. Grandpa was going to babysit her too.

“Thank goodness you sing like a crow that’s crashed!” she told him when she and her mother came over to our house the evening before the festival in order to lay down some rules.

It was a long evening. When the grown-ups had finished lecturing Lena, Krølla, and me thoroughly and at length about being good and not making ropeways while they were away, it was Grandpa’s turn.

“The children must wear life jackets if they’re in a boat and helmets on their bikes. There’s bread in the freezer. Our cell phone number’s above the phone. . . .”

Mom kept on talking. Grandpa kept on nodding.

“. . . and, Lars, my dear, none of your grandchildren or young neighbors are to ride in your moped box,” she said finally. Grandpa didn’t nod at that, and I swear I saw his fingers crossed behind his back.

At five past eight the next morning, the sun came in through my window and tickled my nose. A smell of boiled fish and coffee was coming all the way into my room. Grandpa’s smell! I looked out at the sea, which was bright blue with small waves, then I ran downstairs. Krølla and Lena were already sitting at the kitchen counter, eating bread with fish and mayonnaise. He only eats fish, my grandpa. That’s why the cats are happiest downstairs with him. They share the same favorite dish.

Grandpa spread so much butter on my bread that it looked like cheese.

“Get that grub down you, Trille, my lad. We’re going for a ride. You can’t see the world from the kitchen table!”

Grandpa’s moped looks more or less like a backward tricycle with a big box at the front. Grandpa usually carries things in the box, but when it’s the choral festival, grandchildren and neighbors get to have a ride in it.

The first job that day was to pick up two cans of paint that Grandpa had ordered from town. They would be coming across the fjord on the ferry.

We decided we would pretend that the paint cans were full of gold coins. The Royal Mathildan Agents had to hide the cans in Mathildewick Cove because the deadly Balthazar Gang was after them.

“The pirate king Balthazar will do anything to get his hands on those coins,” I said, narrowing my eyes.

“He eats live rabbits whole!” Lena whispered slyly.

“And fish,” added Krølla, with eyes as round as saucers.

Not even Mom would have spotted that there were three children, all with their own water pistols, in Grandpa’s moped box when we started our journey to the ferry landing. We were huddled at the bottom with a woolen blanket over our heads.

Grandpa’s moped rattles almost endlessly. It feels like your tongue is vibrating inside your mouth. I was so thrilled with all the excitement that my legs hurt. Finally the moped stopped, and Agent Lena threw off the woolen blanket, which fluttered toward the ferry slip.

“Freeze!” she shouted, pointing her pistol dramatically at the ferry.

There aren’t usually all that many people on the ferry. I know that because Dad works there, and we go with him for a couple of trips now and then. We expected to see four or five cars and Able Seaman Birger. But not today. Today there was a family reunion at one of the farms, and more than twenty old ladies were staring terror-stricken at Lena and me.

“Uh-oh,” murmured Grandpa. “Hurry, quick as a flash, and let’s get that paint!”

In a panic, I slalomed among all the flowery skirts, finally reaching Able Seaman Birger and the paint.

“Th-thanks,” I stuttered in a very unconvincing agent’s voice, and snatched the cans from him. I could hear Mini-Agent Krølla a short distance away, shouting “Bam bam bam” at the poor ferry passengers.

“It’s the whole Balthazar Gang,” whispered Lena excitedly when I had finally completed my assignment.

“It’s Hillside Marie and Ola’s wife, Lovise. I went to confirmation class with them,” Grandpa muttered, lifting his hand to his helmet in a cheerful salute. Our mini-agent kept on shouting “Bam” until Lena pulled her clattering back down into the box. Grandpa started the moped with a lurch, and its rattling was worse than ever as we began our escape to our fortress back in Mathildewick Cove. It was like being in an electric mixer.

After a while, Lena thought it was safe to remove the woolen blanket. I squinted against the sun. Grandpa was leaning flat over the handlebars, giving the moped full throttle. Occasionally he turned to look behind. I peered past him and saw that we were taking part in a car chase. The roads where we live are narrow, and Grandpa was driving down the middle. It was impossible for cars to pass. And even though he was driving as fast as the moped would go, that’s not especially fast. Behind us was a whole line of traffic from the ferry, all going to the family reunion. They hooted and honked. It was like a long parade with us at the front. I could see Grandpa grinning inside his helmet. He was showing off for his old classmates.

“Hold on tight!” he shouted suddenly. “We’re taking a shortcut!”

Grandpa made a sharp left turn onto the old tractor track that cuts across the fields to our house. It was so bumpy I thought I might dislocate something.

“Yee-haw!” shouted Lena as we roared into the farmyard. We skidded to a halt, spraying gravel everywhere.

Safely back home, we turned the house into a fortress. Grandpa was our commander in chief and went around with a rolling pin under his belt. We put the cans of paint in the middle of the living-room floor, then built defenses in front of all the doors to the house so the Balthazar thieves would never get in. We used almost every single piece of furniture we have. Krølla, who was standing guard, kept shouting that the thieves were coming. Then she would almost scream with laughter when we pretended to shoot out the window, especially when Grandpa used the rolling pin as a bazooka.

“Choral festival is the best,” I said to Lena, but Lena said it would be even more fun if someone really did try to break in.

Then Grandpa suggested inviting Auntie Granny over for a cup of coffee.

“She’s here! The old pirate queen,” whispered Lena.

We lay as still as statues on a table in Minda’s room and peered out the window. Auntie Granny’s head was right below us. She rang the doorbell. Lena and I carefully inched our pistols out the window.

“You’re never getting in!”

Lena sounded very fierce, and Auntie Granny looked up in surprise.

“Oh my, Trille darling. Aren’t you going to open the door?”

I explained to her briefly that she was a powerful pirate queen. Auntie Granny put her bag down in bewilderment. In a secret compartment inside it, there were hard candies.

“What about Grandpa, then?” she asked after a moment.

The tip of a rolling pin came into sight through the small bathroom window next to the front door.

“Get lost, Lady Balthazarina!” Grandpa shouted, so loudly that the shower stall shook.

Auntie Granny stood in shock for a moment. Then she said something about smoking us out, and vanished.

A long time passed. We couldn’t see Auntie Granny anywhere. Lena thought she had gone home, but Grandpa was sure she was up to something and we should keep our guard up. Besides, there were no more buses to Auntie Granny’s house.

Then suddenly I smelled something that sent a chill down my spine. I ran upstairs to the ropeway window with Lena in hot pursuit.

“Smoking haddocks! She’s only gone and made waffles!” Lena blurted out.

So she had. Down in Lena’s yard, Auntie Granny had equipped herself with a camping table and an electric waffle iron. A long cable trailed away through Lena’s kitchen window.

“She’s flipping broken into my house!”

Lena was absolutely astonished. There was already a stack of waffles on the table. Now and then, Auntie Granny flapped a tea towel, wafting the smell toward us in great clouds. It gave me goose bumps all over. We stayed as quiet as church mice as we watched the pile of waffles get bigger and bigger. Even Grandpa sat down, disheartened, and looked out the window. None of us was keeping an eye on Krølla. All of a sudden we caught sight of her out in the yard! Auntie Granny gave her a hug and sat her on a lawn chair. Then she spread butter on a freshly cooked, delicately soft waffle and sprinkled loads of sugar on top. I almost started crying.

“We surrender,” Lena said determinedly.

“Suffering sticklebacks, no, we don’t!” exclaimed Grandpa, even though Auntie Granny has told him that he’s not allowed to say “suffering sticklebacks” when we’re listening. “Go to the cellar and fetch your fishing rod, Trille.”

Then Grandpa called Lena’s house. Auntie Granny heard the phone ringing and peered up at us.

“Should I get it?” she asked Lena, who nodded vigorously.

Auntie Granny lifted out the next waffle and disappeared inside.

“Ah, hello. I am calling from the National Federation of Hip Patients,” Grandpa said in a frightfully high-pitched voice. “We were wondering if you would be generous enough to consider purchasing some fund-raising scratch cards.”

While he was speaking, he pointed desperately at the window. Auntie Granny clearly didn’t want any scratch cards, so we didn’t have much time.

“Psst! Krølla!” I whispered, letting out the fishing line.

Krølla didn’t understand right away that she had to attach waffles to the hook. She is so little, after all. It took us quite a while to explain, but we managed to hoist up two waffles before Grandpa had to hang up and Auntie Granny came back outside. Lena wolfed one of them down as soon as we got it over the windowsill.

“We’ve got to share!” I said, almost shouting.

“It’s impossible to share two waffles between three people, Trille!” Lena explained with her mouth full.

Grandpa and I had to make do with one. In the yard, Krølla was on her fifth.

After ten minutes, Grandpa fixed a pillowcase to the end of a broom and raised the white flag out the bedroom window. We surrendered.

It’s fun to play war. But peace is best. That’s what I thought when I was finally sitting in the yard, eating waffles with the world’s nicest granny-aunt.

“Why is he so thin and you’re so fat, if you’re brother and sister?” Lena asked midbite, looking at Auntie Granny and Grandpa.

“She ate all my food when we were little,” said Grandpa, who had to duck as Auntie Granny tried to smack him with her tea towel.

“I wasn’t this fat in the old days, little Lena.”

“Exactly how fat were you, then?” Lena wanted to know.

And so the storytelling began. She had been beautiful, Auntie Granny, like an actress. There were so many young men who wanted to marry her that Grandpa was allowed to lie on the roof and shoot them with his slingshot when they came to see her. Nobody was fat back then, actually, as far as Grandpa could remember, because they ate only potatoes and fish. But at Christmas they were given an orange. Except during the war. They weren’t given any then. . . .

Just as we were going to bed, Mom called to see how things were going. Grandpa told her that both young and old were on their best behavior.

“We’ve been telling stories about the old days and eating waffles,” he said.

Lena and I smiled.

“Can I have a word with Krølla?” Mom asked next.

Grandpa gave a little cough and reluctantly handed over the receiver.

“Don’t tell her we’ve been on the moped,” I whispered to Krølla.

She nodded and took the phone with an air of importance.

“What have you been doing today, Little Miss Krølla?” we heard Mom ask.

Grandpa fell to his knees in front of his youngest grandchild and clasped his hands. Krølla looked at him in astonishment.

“I haven’t ridden on the moped,” she said loudly and clearly.

Grandpa dropped his hands, breathing a sigh of relief. Up there at the choral festival, Mom probably did the same thing.

“That’s good,” she said softly. “What
did
you do, then, my sweet?”

“I rode in the box,” said Krølla.