“Julenissen hates dirt,” said Besta.
“I guess he’ll never get scared away from our house, then,” said Arne. “And I should think he’d like the Christmas baking even better than the cleaning.”
“If he doesn’t, I know somebody else who does,” chuckled his mother.
Arne knew there would be stacks of flatbrod, hard and crisp and round, each piece larger than a plate. Besta baked these right on top of her well-scrubbed cookstove. There would be heart-shaped waffles, and lefse and bakkelse and rosettes and all kinds of good coffeecakes. His mouth watered at the thought. If a boy hung around the kitchen at the right times, he was sure to come in for a good many samples, especially broken bits.
He knew there would also be a final scouring of the house just before Christmas, that the windows and the copper flowerpots on the window sills would be gleaming. The geraniums and begonias would be coaxed into bloom for Christmas.
And of course the womenfolk would be busy planning and preparing food to last through the Christmas season, for no one wanted to do much work during the two weeks of the holidays. And there would be a great deal of company.
Father would see to it that they had all the best kinds of fish—the smoked and pickled herring. And the lutfisk—which he had so disliked to bale in the summer—would be a favorite part of the Christmas feasting. There would be cheeses, too, of many kinds, and pickled pigs’ feet and headcheese, roasted meats and sausages. Mother always set out a good koltbord—a table laden with all these good things and many others; people could help themselves to suit their tastes.
Arne thought of all this as he fortified himself with a substantial snack. Then he went out to the workshop. He had almost enough little ships now, ready for sandpapering and painting. His worries about school were forgotten, and the time flew as he worked, his lips puckered in a low, contented whistle.
Suddenly he straightened with a start. It certainly couldn’t be supper time yet. But Margret was coming down the path calling him.
“Don’t come in! Don’t come in!” he shouted, throwing an old blanket over his work. Then he ran out and closed the door behind him.