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“The raw eggs can make you sick,” I tell him. “Is that what you want? You want to feel gross and sicky?”
That makes him pause. It’s enough for me to grab him and take him over to the sink, kicking the footstool over to us and rinsing his hands off.
“I was about to ask how the Christmas cookies were coming along,” Ella says warily.
I look at her over my shoulder. She has Tor beside her, who looks bleary-eyed from his nap. Now that we’re back in the palace, I think everyone is still trying to catch up on all the lost sleep from being at the kikut.
“They were coming along great,” I tell her.
“I’m going to be sick!” Bjorn says brightly.
“I told him that the raw eggs could make him sick. Apparently he doesn’t care.”
I dry Bjorn’s hands with a clean dishrag and Ella sighs. “Oh Bjorn. Christmas Eve is tomorrow. Do you really want Santa Claus to skip this house because you’ve been eating cookie dough?”
That gets his attention. He looks crestfallen. “No…”
She crosses her arms and puts on her stern-mother face, which I’ll admit makes me want to straighten up and fly right.
“Then you need to be on your best behavior now, okay?” Under her breath she adds, “And after Christmas too would be nice.”
“Okay,” he says hesitantly, as if he’s entering a binding contract with his words.
With Christmas Eve tomorrow, everyone is scrambling to get everything done. Soon the kitchen is going to be packed with Sigrid and Ella making the meal, so I figured now was a good time to get started on the Christmas cookies, which is always a good activity to keep the boys busy and creative at the same time. The chocolate chip cookies aren’t traditional for the Norwegian Christmas Eve dinner, but the boys like them, so it’s pretty much a batch just for them, and certainly will be now that Bjorn got his hands in it. Later I’ll make some proper ones in a shortbread style, and then the boys can help with decorating a few.
“Do you have any Christmas traditions?” I ask Ella.
“Not really. Just the usual things like decorating the tree, making cookies, and opening presents on Christmas morning. I know you do it on Christmas Eve here in Norway, but in Liechtenstein we do a little of both.”
Sigrid comes in from the other room with a bag of turnips she must have gotten from the cellar. “Growing up we always made a big batch of lefse for Christmas. My favorite, providing it has enough butter,” I tell her.
“I’ve never had lefse,” Ella says. “What is it?”
“It’s a flatbread made from potatoes, similar to a crepe. My grandmother used to make it, and I continued the tradition.” There were so many holiday mornings where I would join my grandma in the cold kitchen, the fire slowly heating up the room, and help her get started on the lefse. I would roll the sticky dough between my hands into little balls, and she would make them flat and thin with the rolling pin.
“That sounds good. I’ll have to try it.”
Sigrid gives her a dry look. “Is that a hint for me to add it to the Christmas menu?”
Ella laughs. “I am sure you have enough on your plate.”
“I know how to make it,” I tell Ella. “It’s not hard to make, but it does take a little time.”
“Another time,” Ella says with a dismissive wave. “Your hands are full with the boys. Speaking of, I’m going to start prepping for tomorrow. Figure out what we’re going to wear to church. Do you need a dress?”
I give her an amused look. “Do you really think anything of yours will fit me? Don’t worry, I have some church-appropriate pieces.”
“Okay, well, if you need a handbag or something, let me know,” she says, putting Tor in his chair and leaving the kitchen.
“Do we have to go to church?” Bjorn asks, climbing onto a seat at the table beside his brother.
“You do,” I tell him as I grab the bowl of cookie dough and stick a spatula in it, giving it a stir. “It’s a special time of year.”
“And Santa is watching,” Sigrid adds over her shoulder as the turnips roll across the counter.
“Are you coming?” Bjorn asks me.
I nod. “I am. Going to church on Christmas Eve is my tradition too. I used to go with my grandmother to the tiny church we had in our village.”
