‘And don’t forget to close the fridge door,’ mum says while dusting the kitchen lamps.
‘Yep,’ I say and I try to not spill any of the raspberry jam on the table cloth.
‘What happens if the fridge door stays open?’ I ask.
‘Eat up your porridge!’ mum says while she is sweeping up the floor.
‘But what happens if the fridge door stays open?’ I ask, once more. ‘Will it get cold in the house?’
‘Oh Eira,’ mum says with a sigh and then she is folding a basket full of laundry.
‘How cold then?’ I ask and I start to shovel porridge onto one side of the bowl.
‘Very cold, my dear. Now eat up your porridge!’ mum says while she is drilling five holes in the wall.
I try to imagine how cold it could get in the house. Very cold, I guess.
‘If the fridge door stays open, will it snow inside?’ I ask.
Mum doesn’t answer. She is balancing on a ladder, with the screwdriver in her hand.
I take another spoonful. And then I shovel more porridge onto one side of the bowl.
It is getting a bit chilly in the living room already.
‘If the fridge door stays open, can we build an igloo then?‘
Mum doesn’t answer. She is stirring a paint bucket.
‘And could we have an ice rink, just a small one, in the kitchen?’
I stare at my bowl. In the past three minutes, the porridge has tripled in size. A porridge hill. Oh flip!
I try to imagine how we could get from one room to another.
If the fridge door stood open for a couple of days, that is.
If there was much snow in the kitchen. If we would get our skis down from the attic.
I am not so good at skiing. Not yet.
Now mum is tiling the bathroom floor. And the fridge door is still open.
I stare at my porridge. And I try to take a spoonful.
I count to ten. And then I try to take another one.
And then it happens:
I am stuck! With both feet! In a bowl of porridge!
I know it looks like snow. But it is porridge. Everywhere!
If you have ever stood with your feet in porridge, you know how it feels!
The more you move, the more you get stuck!
The only way to make it is to slowly try to sit on your bum.
In the porridge, that is. Don’t mind if you get messy.
The next step is to lie down. Immediately.
Breathe in, breathe out. Then you’ll have to count to ten.
If you can, try to wiggle your ears. And your toes.
Gently move your arms and legs, as if you want to make snow angels.
‘Oh Eira!!’ mummy says.
‘How many times did I tell you to close the fridge door!?
And who is now going to shovel away all the snow in the house?’
‘Oh flip! I am sorry’, I say. And then I finish my porridge.
(After all, you can’t shovel snow on an empty stomach.)
Eira is a 53cm/ 21″ tall fiber art doll, firmly stuffed with wool, with a sculptured head, dark brown hair and freckles on her button nose. Her new family wanted me to create a little dancer. I am not sure I was successful this time. Eira still has to work quite a bit on her posture. I won’t even mention her table manners, sigh.
Eira travels to her new family with two sets of clothes, you can see a few more detailed photos here. Quite practical, if you ask me, because at least she would have something to wear when one set is in the laundry. With that girl, you never know. She always has a surprise in store ;-)