“Come to table.  Now you can enjoy yourselves.”

They moved the big chest up to the table, for there were two chairs only, and Dolf sat on it near Riekje.  Tobias took a chair, placed another beside him for Nelle, stretched out his legs and crossed his hands over his stomach.  Then a cloud of smoke rose up to the wooden roof and the saucepan appeared on the table, making a sound like the melting of snow in the sun.

“It’s Slipper’s cat, I knew it was,” cried Dolf, when Nelle had taken off the lid.

Each held out his plate and Nelle, looking into the pot, produced some brown meat, cut into pieces, which she poured on to the plates with plenty of gravy.  Dolf looked carefully at the pieces which Nelle gave him, smelt them, and after a moment’s pause, brought his fist down on the table and cried: 

“God forgive me, Riekje, it’s scheisels.”

It was indeed ox tripe prepared in the Flemish manner, with liver, heart and lungs.  Dolf put his fork into the biggest pieces first, and as he swallowed them, rubbed his hands over his stomach to show his approval.

“Nelle is a capital cook,” said Tobias.  “I know King Leopold eats scheisels cooked in wine, but Nelle makes them just as good with water.”

“This is indeed a fine Saint Nicholas we are keeping,” said Dolf to his wife, smacking his tongue against the roof of his mouth.  “We shall always remember eating tripe on St. Nicholas day this year.”

Nelle now got up and pushed the frying-pan on the fire.  She took care first to rake out the ashes and to put some fagots of wood on the flames.  When the stove began to roar again Nelle became serious and uncovered her batter.

It had risen to the top of the pan, and was rich, thick, and fragrant, with here and there little bubbles on its surface.  Nelle plunged a big spoon into the beautiful, deep mass, and when she drew it out long threads hung from it on all sides.  The frying-pan hissed and bubbled as the batter was poured on to the brown butter around the slices of apple which Nelle had carefully laid in first.  When the pancake began to brown at the edges it was tossed into the air by a clever twist of the arm.  Dolf and Tobias clapped their hands and Riekje admired Nelle’s dexterity.

“A plate, quick!” The first koekebakke was spread out, golden and juicy, the color of a fried sole.  Who would have this first one?  It should be for Tobias; Tobias passed it on to Riekje, and the young girl cut it in pieces and shared it with Dolf.

Tobias watched them both eat it with pleasure, then said to Nelle:  “Ah! my wife, I see that the koekebakken are as good as when you made them for me the first time.”

In gratitude for these kindly words a big juicy pancake, round as a quoit, fell on to his plate.  “The sun shines on my plate just as I see it shine on the water from the bridge,” he cried out.

More batter was quickly poured into the frying-pan, the butter bubbled, the fire roared, and round pancakes fell on the table as tench.