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around me. When we had uttered a
prayer, we started digging into the delicious grub cooked by our
own Norwegian chef. I had piled mountains of roast potato and pork
chops onto my plate and it was slowly disappearing. I tried to make
conversation between mouthfuls but was quickly silenced by
dad.
    “S velg Carly!” I effortlessly
translated it to swallow and did just that.
    “So as I was saying, or trying to
say at least, how was your day, pappa?” I asked.
    “It was good,
Carls. Perfekt !”
He responded. “ And yours?”
    “It was pretty great,
dad!”
    “I wish you be speaking Norwegian
more, Carly!” His irritation bringing forth his strong childhood
Norwegian accent.
    I sighed and said, “Fine! I mean
bot!”
    My cousin, Hilde, or as they say
in America, Hilda, spoke for the first time during dinner.
“Endelig!” Once again I translated it to mean finally.
    I was
offended, “Hva mener du til slutt? What do you mean finally?”
    Papa had a huge
grin on his face. His blue eyes twinkling. “ At hun til slutt! She means
finally!”
    “ Papa! Jeg tok anstøt! ” I said. “Dad! I’m offended!”
    He let loose a deep guffaw, his
smile wrinkles visible, unlike my deceased mother, his shockingly
red hair shaking, giving it the appearance of fire. Yeah, I know
fire and water. Haha. His red hair was really surprising, giving
the fact that most Norwegians are either blondes or brunettes. His
own parents have white blond and dirty blond hair!
    “ Papa! Slutte å le! ” He didn’t stop laughing.
    “ Nei !” It doesn’t
take a genius to work out that that meant ‘no’!
    At that point
the entire table, Hilde included, fell helpless to laughter.
“ Stopp! Stopp! ”
We begged each other. The food on the table remained oblivious to
us for a while.
    Then the tasty fumes from the food
entered our nostrils and we suddenly remembered the banquet on the
table.
    We gobbled down the food in two
minutes flat.
    Papa called,
“ Eirik! Dessert, kan
du! ” Kan du meant please. I’m sure the
other one isn’t too hard to figure out!
    Eirik, our chef, or as he goes by
in the U.S., Eric, came rushing in with bowls of krumkake. Krumkake
was a thin layer of rolled cake, filled with whipped cream.
Personally, it was the best food ever!
    “Herr Martinsen!
Dessert ees sirved!” Eirik started english lessons very, very, late! He furrowed
his bushy brows as he struggled to form the words of english. He
nervously ran his hand through his mop of light brown
hair.
    “ Takk, Eirik !” We all yelled, giggling.
    “ Takk, takk,
takk! ” We went into crazy fits of
laughter.
    Eirik, startled by our many
thanks, replied with his own series of ‘ your
welcome’s’.
    “Errr…... Din velkommen,din
velkommen, din velkommen !”
    At this point there was no cure
for our mad fits of laughter. Eirik was even in the land of giggles
by now.
    “ Din velkommen, din
velkommen! ” He let loose another series of
chuckles.
    Looking at his watch, he
straightened up and politely dismissed himself, “Plis, escuss me,
meester Martinsen!”
    Papa waved him
away, wiping tears from his face. “ Takk,
Eirik !”
    After he left we
laughed a bit, until we noticed the tempting plates of krumkake and
gobbled it down. Eirik, knowing my allergies for strawberries, had
instead placed several handfuls of juicy cloudberries, imported
from Norway. By imported I mean snuck into our luggage as we left
Norway. Hey, berries are amazing in Norway! The cold climate means
the berries mature slower and has a more intense flavour. Plus in
Norway cloudberries are considered a
delicacy. That’s part of the reason the
guards at Oslo Airport burst out laughing when they say the bags
stuffed with cloudberries and strawberries.
    “Haha! Du
badebukser !” Personally I was offended to
be called a smuggler! But papa and Hilde just
laughed.
    After the heavy meal my eyelids
grew heavy and I had to fight the urge to sleep at the
table.
    “Papa! Vennligst ta med meg til
mitt