Boxing Day

 

The yarn lady was up early on Boxing Day, already thinking of what she’d need to do before the Jólasveinarnir arrived that evening. She started out with shopping for the ingredients for tonight’s “feast” of pylsur and crispy onions. As she checked out she regretted the idea of offering to host thirteen hungry trolls for dinner. She was sure not all would show up, but just in case she needed to have enough for all of them, so she had a LOT of meat in her cart. The good thing was that she could repurpose it to be meatloaf if there was meat left over.

She spent the afternoon crafting the remoulade and sweet mustard and then mixing the pork, beef and lamb for the pylsur. She unearthed a bag of skewers to use to grill the not-quite-sausages, checked to make sure she had enough plates and sat down to read until they arrived.

The Jólasveinarnir arrived a little after 6:30pm. The yarn lady knew they’d need to wait until there was no sun left in the sky, lest a stray sunbeam reflected onto one and turned him to stone. When she went to answer the door she saw  Kertasníkir (the candle stealer), Ketkrókur (meat hook), Gáttaþefur (the doorway sniffer), Gluggagægir (the window peeper), Bjúgnakrækir (the sausage stealer), Hurðaskellir (who carved doorstops to keep doors from slamming) and Giljagaur (the milk drinker). Seven out of thirteen was pretty good. Kertasníkir explained that most of the earlier trolls were having a party with some of the folks at Destiny’s Bridge, but it would involve lots of alcohol and ones here weren’t interested in spending an evening getting drunk and sharing stories. Askasleikir had decided last night to head back to Ísland early. He said his job was done here and that he was resigning, effective immediately. He said he was going to look into getting a job as a brú troll. The other trolls then made snide jokes at how he was much more suited to be the mean troll who hid under bridges and asked people trick questions like “What is the weight of a sparrow?” The yarn lady laughed at that. She wished that MR had been able to come over to meet the trolls, as she might have found that joke as funny as she did.

She explained to the trolls that she would be setting up a camp grill in order to cook their dinner and invited them to all take seats. The trolls and cats started a conversation about what the life of a house cat was like here in New Jersey. The yarn lady headed to the kitchen and Kertasníkir followed. She told them she had all the makings for pylsur and his face fell. It turned out the trolls had been looking forward to some real American cooking. The yarn lady buried her face in her hands. Yes, she could make meatloaf with all the meat, but not in time for dinner any time soon. Would the trolls like Oscar Meyer wieners she asked? Kertasníkir answered that it would be perfect. Their pylsur were nowhere near as good as and American hot dogs.

The yarn lady grabbed a package out of the fridge and began to cook them up. In about 20 minutes she had the hot dogs, rolls and a full selection of condiments (including the sweet mustard and remoulade) on the table along with the crunchy fried onions.

Everyone grabbed a hot dog and some crunchy onions and for a few minutes the only sound was chewing and a discreet belch or two. The yarn lady was surprised at the number of hot dogs these trolls could eat. Yeah, they like their Oscar Meyer wieners, she thought. 

As they were finishing, she asked them what they’d thought about their time here in New Jersey. The smiles faded from their faces and they looked at each other, wondering who dared to speak. Finally Ketkrókur (the meat hook guy without a meat hook) sighed and said, “This has been a disaster. People don’t know about the Jólasveinarnir, and when they think of trolls they think of bridge trolls, Shrek or those cute little dolls with the colorful hair. We’re none of them for sure, and to be honest we’re a lot closer to the bridge trolls than anything from a kids movie. We’ve agreed that we’ll go back and bring our case to the summer gathering to stop being Jólasveinarnir, or at least to let those who don’t want to be allowed to do something else. To be honest, the folks at Destiny’s Bridge have invited us to stay, and they’re a great bunch of folks most of the time. The trouble is they’ve said that sooner or later the town will come in and break up the camp and everyone will have to move on. That’s no way to live, and those folks agree. Most of them would prefer to live in a house, but they can’t deal with rubbing up against too many people. They’ve tried shelters and the lack of privacy there or in some congregate housing doesn’t work for them.

“As I told BC and Sparky, I intend to enroll at Háskólinn á Akureyri and study Social Sciences to learn to help us develop a new purpose for our lives. If Gryla doesn’t agree, well our section of caves is far enough away from where she lives that I can be convincingly somewhere else if she drops by occasionally. I plan to come home on weekends and she can find me then or I’ll go visit. If need be we’ll lie and sneak around behind her back until we’re ready to make a complete break with the clan at Dimmuborgir.”

The yarn lady listened to this with an open mouth. She thought she’d need to convince the group to rethink their purpose, but they’d already decided they needed to on their own. One after the other, each of them discussed their possible plans for their return. The candle stealer wanted to find an environmental group to work with, the door sniffer would apprentice himself to a master baker, the window peeper would be looking for a homeless outreach to work with, as he’d listened to many of the seniors’ stories at Destiny’s Bridge and figured it would be even worse in Ísland. The carver of door stoppers already had a trade, so he was already set, and the milk stealer would look for a dairy that needed someone who was good with cows, as he was very good at milking cows.

When they finished telling the yarn lady their plans Gluggagægir looked hopefully at Clementine and Ursula, who were perched on a long pillow in front of the dresser. “The only thing left to make our life perfect would be if perhaps one of you kitties would choose to return to Ísland with us. We’ve all been charmed by your personalities and your care for your humans. Might one of you consider moving to Dimmuborgir to live with us in our lava caves?

The yarn lady answered before the cats could even come up with a polite refusal.  “Oh, Gluggagægir, and all of you, the cats have become quite fond of you, but they can’t possibly go with you. The rules for bringing animals into your country would leave them in quarantine for weeks all by their lonesome. I’m sure there are kittens for adoption there, especially if you wait until late spring. That’s when there are generally more kittens than anyone can deal with!” As she spoke, the cats had stood up and were making their way around the room, greeting each of the trolls with a rub or a paw touch.

On this note, Ketkrókur rose and thanked the yarn lady for her hospitality and the cats for their welcome and friendship. He said they’d be returning to Ísland within the next few days, as there was no tradition here to uphold of Jólasveinarnir pulling their pranks for a two week period after their first visit. 

The yarn lady shook hands with each of the trolls, and hugged Ketkrókur. She wished them all well for their return trip and their endeavors in the future. She handed Ketkrókur a slip of paper with some email addresses and names on it – hers, Clementine’s and BC’s. “Keep in touch if you can, and Góð jól!”

December 25th

 

FROM: Ande <adlp@optonline.net>

TO:       Dotsie <dotsiefly@birdtlover.com>

DATE:  12/25/23 9:15 am

RE:       Jólasveinarnir

Hi, as probably already know, I've invited the Jólasveinarnir over for dinner on Boxing Day. It appears this new group on their maiden trip of Jól pranks is having an identity crisis. The last two nights they've shared how they feel they need to redefine their purpose in life. I thought perhaps if they came for dinner we could have a discussion about this if they like. You've been to Iceland, so I have two questions for you - what might they like for dinner, and  do you have any ideas as to how the Jólasveinarnir could be re-imagined so they can have an enjoyable and useful future?

 

FROM: Dotsie <dotsiefly@birdtlover.com>

TO:       Ande <adlp@optonline.net>

DATE:  12/25/23 9:15 am

RE:       Re: Jólasveinarnir

"Traditional Icelandic foods are not for the faint of heart" said an article that included sheep's head (svid), sour ram's testicles (hrutspungar) and fermented shark fins (hakarl). However, it went on, those older foods have fallen by the wayside. But you'll find Iceland folks eating dishes with fish, like a good fish stew with traditional dark rye bread, or dishes with lamb, such as smoked lamb. Your jolly Jola crowd, however, will probably love pylsur, the Icelandic hot dog.

https://theplanetd.com/icelandic-food/

 

FROM: Ande <adlp@optonline.net>

TO:       Dotsie <dotsiefly@birdtlover.com>

DATE:  12/25/23 9:15 am

RE:       Re: Re: Jólasveinarnir

Wow, they have some really gross foods. No sour ram testicles for me, that’s for sure. Even if I could find them, I wouldn’t make them. The pylsur sounds like a good idea. I found a great recipe for them at https://cookingrabbit.blogspot.com/2017/04/pylsur-icelandic-hot-dog.html. I hope I have enough time tomorrow to make these, or they’ll end up with Oscar Meyer wieners!

  

FROM: Clementine <princessclementine@kittymail.com>

TO:       BC & Sparky <rudytoots@catlover.com>

Cc:       Archie <pupsupreme@whosagoodboy.com>

DATE:  12/25/23 3:15 am

RE:       Trolls for dinner!

The yarn lady has invited the trolls over for dinner on Boxing Day, which apparently is the day after Christmas, and has nothing to do with prizefighters. Your human, MR is invited also. I hope she can come. The yarn lady wants to see if the trolls will talk about what they might do with their lives other than being Jólasveinarnir. Some of them might be able to pass as human, but not all of them. Who knows if they’d even want to? See if MR will bring you with her when she comes tomorrow! We could have a jolly Boxing Day and have our own boxing matches while they eat!

 

FROM: Archie <pupsupreme@whosagoodboy.com>

TO:       BC & Sparky <rudytoots@catlover.com> Clementine <princessclementine@kittymail.com>

DATE:  12/25/23 4:47 am

RE:       Did you have a visitor last night?

I’m happy the yarn lady invited the trolls over, I think. It could be interesting, though I bet they have terrible table manners. Did you have a visit by a giant black cat last night who asked if you’d got clothes for Christmas? That happened to Benji, Pepper and Lenny when they were here eight years ago. That cat tried to kill them because they hadn’t been given clothing! Cats don’t WEAR clothing for sheesh sake. I hope you have a great Christmas. Robbie and Eric are both here and I’m so happy. I love my boys, even though they are middle aged men now.

December 24th

 

It was almost Christmas Eve and the cats were happily anticipating Christmas, if only because there would be no new trolls popping in each night. The treats and little gifts were nice, but it was nicer to know that there would not be intruders who might or might not be pleasant guests. So far only the bowl licker had been downright mean and rude, and it seemed like the Jólasveinarnir had shared the information about the cats with ones who hadn’t visited yet, and the visits were much more pleasant. Tonight’s troll was Kertasníkir, who stole your candles to eat them. The cats had discussed this very early this morning via email. Eating candles probably made sense nine hundred years ago when they were made out of animal fat, but now they were made from all sorts of wax, from paraffin to soy or coconut. Paraffin is made from petroleum, so it was definitely out for eating. The other types were at least marginally edible, but the cats figured they’d taste terrible. Years ago, Clem had nibbled a candle the yarn lady had on the table and it was tasteless and hard to chew. They discussed whether or not to try to find a few candles to leave out, or perhaps just go to sleep and ignore the whole thing.

BC and Sparky, the Jackson cats, opted for bed, saying they didn’t think there was a single candle in the house, except maybe an old birthday candle in a drawer. Clem and Ursula knew there were many candles around their condo, but most were scented, except some emergency ones. Candles don’t come with labels, once their package was opened, so there was no way to know what type of wax they were. Clem decided to put whatever ones she could find on the counter.

It was probably around 3am when the yarn lady woke up to use the bathroom. The light wouldn’t turn on, but her ocean noise was still playing, so the power wasn’t out. She felt her way to the end of the bed and pulled the cord for the overhead light, but it wouldn’t go on either. Sighing, she felt her way to the bathroom, and that light wouldn’t work either. She gave a little scream and yelled, “Enough is enough!” She heard footsteps approaching, and one of the Jólasveinarnir approached with a miner’s lamp on his head and an LED lightbulb in his hand. She glared at him and he lowered his head and sighed.

“I apologize, my timing is terrible tonight. If you don’t mind?” She stepped back and Kertasníkir screwed the bulb in the socket. “There, that is much better for the environment than that antique bulb you had in there.” He smiled encouragingly.

“You. Replace the other bulbs while I use the bathroom, and then we need to talk.” The yarn lady closed the door behind her and Kertasníkir scurried around putting new lightbulbs in the lamps he’d removed the offending bulbs from. He carefully put the old bulbs in a box he had put on the dining table and sat down to wait.

The yarn lady emerged, gave him a stern look and sat down. The Jólasveinarnir looked nothing like what she expected. She’d heard them most nights for the last week and a half but pretended sleep to let them get on with their tasks. He wore a long-sleeved tie-dye t-shirt and jeans. His long hair was in dreadlocks and he had a colorful knit hat on his head. “So, who are you? The environmentally conscious troll who happens to be a fan of the Grateful Dead?”

Kertasníkir looked confused. “I am a fan of the living and wish the world to live long enough for me to last out my exceptionally long lifespan. The dead may be grateful, but I won’t be if Ísland’s glaciers melt. So, instead of stealing non-existent inedible candles, I change lightbulbs to energy efficient ones. He held up the fancy bulb from the bathroom and very efficient but ugly LED bulb. “This will last four times as long and use much less electricity.”

The yarn lady held out her hand for her Edison bulb. “However inefficient this may look, it’s an LED masquerading as an incandescent bulb. I chose this for its look but didn’t ignore the science.” Kertasníkir looked embarrassed, apologized and hurried to put the Edison bulb back in the fixture. When he returned the yarn lady asked, “So, how has your trip to New Jersey been? I know what you’ve told the cats, as I read their emails about you all.

Kertasníkir sighed. “Ketkrókur and I have talked a lot over the past twelve days. He is right, it is not feasible to continue our traditional pranking. It barely works in Ísland, where the people expect us and it is more of a game. Fewer people live in the traditional villages or in any building we can get into. Many of you live in houses in this country, but most of them do not have the younger children. We’ve found some good neighborhoods, but too many are like this where everyone is, pardon me, old. I doubt Gryla will agree to disbanding the Jólasveinarnir, so I fear we will resort to deceit in years to come, telling her we have done the tasks, but meanwhile having a nice vacation somewhere warm. Honestly, other than lying to Langamma, it sounds like an enjoyable way to pass a few weeks at the start of the hard winter.”

The yarn lady shook her head sadly. There were so many traditions that hadn’t survived the changing times. Some, like slathering yourself in oil and lying in the sun for hours were plain unhealthy, others such as kids having a newspaper route were deemed unsafe. “How about you and the other Jólasveinarnir come over for dinner on the 26^th? I’ll invite MR and we can talk about whatever comes to mind. You won’t have to steal your dinner at least for that one night.” She laughed at her own humor.

 Kertasníkir thanked her and said he’d convey the invitation. Probably not everyone would want to come, but he was sure that at least Ketkrókur would come. As he headed for the front door, the troll slipped some pouches of the food his friend had left last night into the two sneakers. It had gone over so well that he figured a repeat would be appreciated.

The yarn lady looked at the clock. It was 4am, but happily it was only Christmas eve, so she could sleep as late as she liked. As she lay down in bed and pulled the covers over her she said to Clementine, “I know you’re not asleep. I hope you don’t mind that I asked the trolls to dinner on Boxing Day. It should be interesting.

December 23rd

 

BC read the morning’s emails out loud, so Sparky would know what had come in. There were four ads for catnip from Thailand, since everyone knows that they grow the best catnip. There were the usual ones from women who thought Rudytoots was a male human who liked deformed females with only two mammary glands, notices that her package was undeliverable and an appeal to donate money to a dog rescue.  As if. Archie had sent an email saying that tonight's troll had left him yummy dog food in a dish even, and had left mice for the cats, although Benji wouldn’t let the grown kittens eat them, saying they might be poisoned.  He said they’d apparently stolen all the expensive meats from the grocery stores, so hopefully the yarn lady and MR had already purchased their Christmas dinner meat. 

Clementine’s said that this troll was called Ketkrókur, which meant “meat hook,” and that he used a hook to reach down the chimney and steal meat where it was cooking in the fireplace, except no one did open-heart cooking anymore, although the yarn lady said she’d done it for a few years when she was much younger.  Putting the information from the two emails together, obviously Ketkrókur was a meat thief. And yes, MR had bought everything she needed for Christmas dinner already so that wouldn’t be a problem.

Sparky heard “meat hook” and headed for the bedroom, saying she should never have come out from under the bed. Last night she’d dragged a throw blanket under there and hopefully it still was so she could be at least marginally comfortable. BC wasn’t sure she had the better idea, but he decided he’d wait up and see what this meat hook guy was about.

It was very late when the door from the deck opened and a nattily dressed troll strolled in.  “Good evening, BC, I’m glad you’re awake. I’ve heard such interesting things about you.” The troll winked at him. “As you can see, I have no meat hook, and I will not be stealing your holiday dinner. That is a barbaric tradition, and not at all in line with modern society. Instead, I come to bring you meat, cat food meat since you are cats. I procured fine beef entrees for you two, it even says they were crafted by cats, although I’m not sure if that’s true. You should go get your friend Sparky so you aren’t tempted to eat hers.”

BC ran and told Sparky about the fancy cat food, and she hesitantly came through the kitchen. The troll was standing away from the food he put down, and yes, there was no meat hook in sight. BC lifted his face from the bowl and said, “This stuff is great, Sparky. Ketkrókur, can you leave the package here? Maybe the daddy will buy it for us.”  Ketkrókur pulled the package from a bag he held, smoothed out the pouch and left it next to the bowl.

The troll watched them enjoying the food and said, “This whole Jólasveinarnir idea is so terribly outdated. I understand that Gryla has been around for nearly a millennium, but there is no reason not to change with the times! I agreed to accompany the band this year in the spirit of research, to find out exactly what it is we encounter and if it has anything to do with our traditional tasks. I’ve been watching the others every night, and this whole thing is laughable! The world has changed so much and we’re stuck in the early Middle Ages. Good grief, I should probably be hauling around a bronze meat hook! I want to bring enlightenment to the summer gathering of the trolls. Rather than the usual ribaldry and contests of brute strength, we can have discussions of what we want our purpose to be in this third millennium of the Common Age.” He sighed and his shoulders drooped. “They’ll probably laugh me out of the gathering, but if they do, I plan to enroll at Háskólinn á Akureyri to study Social Sciences. I hope to be the first of the Tröllategund to earn a college degree. I'm sure I can be funded as an Indigenous student.”

The cats had finished and were listening to him intently. He was certainly quite different than the other Jólasveinarnir. He talked more like the yarn lady and MR and less like, well, a cave man on a TV cartoon. Sparky reached out a paw and touched his leg, saying, “You have a good mind and high aspirations. We wish you luck in your endeavors and thank you for the delicious dinner.” The troll nodded his thanks and let himself out.

Sparky looked at BC and said, “Wow, I sure wasn’t expecting that from a guy named Meat Hook. I hope there’s a way to change your name over there. He deserves a nice name like…Trausti.

December 22nd

 

None of the New Jersey cats knew quite what to expect from tonight’s visitor. He was described on the Interwebs as “Doorway Sniffer” or Gáttaþefur in Íslenska. Sparky thought that something that sniffed at your doorways belonged in a horror movie and crawled under the bed. Clementine wondered about the laufabrauð he was sniffing to find. That translated to leaf-bread. Was that bread made from acorn flour? Bread shaped like a leaf? Whatever it was, they didn’t have any. The yarn lady had some multigrain bread with all sorts of inclusions, but none of them were leaves. Seeds, yes, grains, yes, but no leaves. Unfortunately, it was in a bag that needed thumbs to open, or she’d leave him a slice on the table with the sneakers.

BC and Ursula were of the opinion that these intruders were disrupting their rest too much and planned to settle down in their coziest sleeping spot and ignore the Jólasveinarnir completely. It was now officially winter and the darkest day of the year, so extra sleep was definitely required.

 

At around 2am, Clementine was awakened by someone blowing their nose. She looked around, wondering if the yarn lady was coming down with a cold. No, she was sound asleep, so Clem jumped to the floor and headed out to explore. In the living room she found a troll with a long red nose that he was wiping with a large handkerchief. “Heddo,” said the troll, “I have a bad code in my does.” He tried to say the last word several more times and then shook his head. Clem realized what he’d been trying to say and replied, “Oh! You have a cold in your nose. Wow, that’s got to be a problem if you’re supposed to be sniffing at our doors to see if we have some laufabrauð.

The troll blew his nose so hard that it sounded like a foghorn and was finally able to take a good breath through his nose. “Ah, much better. Yeah, I’m not even bothering to look for it here. Practically no one in Ísland makes it anymore unless they’re trying to impress someone. From what I can tell it’s devilishly hard to make and the finished ones break if you breathe on them. I’d rather have a shortbread cookie. Who ever came up with the idea of frying a cookie? It’s bad for your cholesterol and stress level. Do you have any cookies?”

Clementine shook her head, replying that she had thought it was a bread thing, so she had put out the yarn lady’s special bread for him. Gáttaþefur examined the bag, opened it and helped himself to a slice. “Oh, this is much better than some stupid cookie. I like this. Do you have any crowberry jam to put on it?” Realizing that cats don’t care about jam he rummaged around in the fridge and found some black raspberry jam and happily slathered the bread with that. He was such an enthusiastic eater that there was jam on his nose and eyebrows before he was finished.

“If I find lovely bread and jam in the other houses I visit tonight it won’t be my cholesterol I’ll worry about. It will be my blood sugar. Sugary jams and carbs! Oh, this is heavenly. He headed for the door and barely remembered to turn back and put small gifts in the sneakers. “Góð jól!”

December 21st

 

Clementine and Ursula headed for bed at their usual time on this evening. Tonight’s visitor was Gluggagægir, also known as the window-peeper. Unlike Peeping Toms, this guy was looking for things to steal, but Pamela made sure every curtain and blind in the house was shut each night as it started to get dark. They might not get a treat or gift, but at least they wouldn’t worry about a troll snooping at the window.

BC and Sparky on the other hand had rooms full of windows without curtains. The living room was glass on three sides with only a curtain on the side where the sun shown in the afternoon. The kitchen had only a valence over the windows for decoration and the bathroom window had no curtain at all. There were curtains in the bedroom, and Sparky decided she’d head in there as soon as it got dark. She did not want to see a spooky face at the window peering in at her.

The cats had enjoyed last night’s baby hot dogs very much, and hoped tonight maybe there would be tiny hamburgers. It wasn’t quite barbeque weather, although the daddy grilled even in the snow sometimes. BC had fallen asleep on the sofa and was dreaming about tiny hot dogs with legs and tails invading the house. They didn’t have eyes, so they bumped into walls and furniture and couldn’t run very fast so BC was chasing them down and biting them in half, except there were too many of them.  There were dozens of pieces of hot dogs littering the kitchen and living room when a noise work BC up. He shook his head and decided that perhaps they hadn’t agreed with his digestive system and had come back to haunt him. He looked around to try to find what window tonight’s Jólasveinarnir was peering through. All of them so far had been pretty sizable, even Stúfur, who was just shorter than the rest. None of the windows had a largish silhouette outside, so BC sat quietly, waiting for the troll to show himself. Finally, he heard a scratching noise at the window near the head of the couch. That one was right next to the fence by the laundry room. BC eased his head above the arm of the couch, as that would put him within a foot or two from that window. There was no silhouette, although he could see a pair of shining eyes just above the bottom of the window. Maybe this troll was even shorter than Stúfur. BC eased up onto the arm of the couch, leaning toward the window and found himself face to face with a raccoon. Since neither had expected to see the other they both screamed. The raccoon lost his grip on the window frame and fell to the ground and BC pitched forward onto the tile floor, landing in a very undignified sprawl.

From behind him BC heard a low laugh. “Ah, you were expecting one of us Jólasveinarnir and instead found a trash bandit! The expression on your faces was priceless.” BC ignored Gluggagægir and started grooming to get his fur back where it belonged. No cat likes to be caught being less than graceful, and to be called out on it is inexcusable. 

Seeing he would not be answered, Gluggagægir placed a laser pointer on the table by the couch and left a second one in a sneaker. He had it on good authority from one of the seniors at Destiny’s Bridge that cats loved to chase laser pointers. He wasn’t quite sure how, as they were kind of long and lumpy, but the old woman seemed to know what she was talking about. He hoped the cats would enjoy them.

December 20th

 

The Jólasveinarnir lounged in their tent at the Destiny’s Bridge Senior Colony, warmed by a propane heater and plenty of blankets.  Early in their visit to New Jersey, Stúfur had stumbled into this camp of stray humans and after an embarrassing encounter with Reverend Steve the trolls were offered a large tent, a heater, blankets and cots for the remainder of their stay. It appeared that the Amerískur didn’t take very good care of their impoverished countrymen, even the old ones who were supposedly wiser. This camp was full of elders who had been turned out of their homes to starve. Reverend Steve had explained to the Jólasveinarnir on their first day here that there was nowhere for these people to go. They hadn’t the money to rent a place to live because the folks who built houses made big ones that took a lot of money to rent and run. So, they ended up in places like Destiny’s Bridge where folks like Reverend Steve and his helpers helped them by providing tents and heaters and food from people who gave it to them. Reverend Steve didn’t care that they were trolls. He said that many of the folks here were different in many ways, and as long as they kept their area clean and didn’t cause problems that trolls, elves and even hobbits were welcome.

Among themselves, the Jólasveinarnir had decided that Reverend Steve might not be entirely in touch with reality. Hobbits and elves weren’t real – they were from stories the humans told each other because they had too much spare time. Well, odd or not, he was a nice guy, and it gave them a comfortable safe place to stay during the day when the sun was shining.

Today’s discussion was about how to deal with the cats in two of the houses they visited. The cats knew they would come every night, so should they stop going to those places and find new ones? Their other targets slept through the night and the Jólasveinarnir could get in and out without difficulty. Askasleikir said that they should poison the cats and get on with their job, but the others ignored him. As far as they could tell, he didn’t like anyone – troll, human or animal and the consensus was that he'd be voted off the team in the off season. No one needs a cranky pants. After some discussion, everyone but Askasleikir agreed to just go about their business and make sure that there were plenty of cat-friendly treats and presents. The only cat they’d had much to do with was their mother’s monstrous cat, Urðarköttur, who liked to eat Gryla’s leftovers whenever she happened to catch a human and make a stew out of him. Supposedly, the cat also liked to eat babies he’d pluck out of their cribs, but if that was true it hadn’t happened for hundreds of years…that they knew of. The idea of small friendly cats was a delight to the Jólasveinarnir who’d met them. Perhaps they could convince one of them to come back to Ísland with them when they were done. 

 

Clementine had prepared for tonight’s visitor by snagging a package of the yarn lady’s sausages out of the freezer. He was supposed to be a sausage stealer who hung from the rafters and grabbed them. Ursula said that the house she’d grown up in with the yarn lady and Pam had exposed beams in the ceiling, because it had was built around the time the earth was cooling. Clem figured she meant it was an old house, but there were no beams in this house that she knew of. Something had to hold up the ceiling she supposed, but it wasn’t visible. Maybe it was magic, or some really strong glue. The sausage stealer would have to settle for getting them off the counter, still in the vacuum sealed pouch, since she wasn’t about to mess with that thing. Those pouches were so thick that even Ursula, who liked to chew on anything plastic, said they were too thick for her to enjoy chewing.

Everyone was sound asleep when Bjúgnakrækir arrived. He gently rapped on the door frame and Ursula’s head shot up. Bjúgnakrækir politely introduced himself and explained that his assigned task was to steal sausages. Ursula told him that Clem had left a vacuum bag of a few on the counter, but asked why each of them had a different task, and why those tasks were…weird. 

The troll sighed and sat down on a large pillow on the floor. “It is because of tradition…and our foremother, Gryla. We Jólasveinarnir live a long time, and centuries ago Gryla decided that her sons should get some of their winter food from the humans who had moved into our lands. I’ve met those old guys – they’re still alive and let me just say that they are some strange dudes. Each of them had some odd food preference that became a never-to-be-changed traditional task that each subsequent generation must do. As I said I’m Bjúgnakrækir, but to be more specific, I’m Bjúgnakrækir the 16^th. I’m the oldest son in the 16^th generation of lineage of Gryla’s son Bjúgnakrækir. The younger sons and the daughters have it a lot easier. They can be named whatever the parents want and can chose any path for their lives. Some of my uncles are fisherman, my mother is a master weaver. I, alas, am the Sausage Stealer. In the early generations, Gryla made all the sons take the name of their father, but that stopped when they realized there were too many bands of Jólasveinarnir and not enough villages. Now it is just the oldest sons of each generation, well and a couple of bands of female Jólasveinarnir who said it was unfair that the men had all the fun. Each band sets up their own little area in the cave and becomes something like a small village themselves, self-governing of their own affairs. If something happens to one of us, we recruit a replacement from among the younger siblings of the one replaced. I’ll tell you for sure that we’ll be replacing Askasleikir come spring. If he doesn’t leave on his own we’ll vote him out and let him find some nice isolated place to live where he can be grumpy by himself.”

As he shook his head, Ursula thanked him for sharing that information and offered to show him where the sausages were. She had so much new information her head felt stuffed with facts. Bjúgnakrækir thanked her and left, placing something small in each of the sneakers on the front table.

Clementine came out of the bedroom as Ursula was trying to arrange all this information in her small brain. She hoped Clem had been listening as she could feel the facts escaping through her ears into the night air. “Help, I can’t remember all that! It’s too much information.” Clem laughed as she sprang onto the table with the sneakers. She poked her head in one, emerging with a tiny hot dog in her mouth. She dropped it to the floor and jumped down. “Hmm, looks like we got an edible tonight. Ha, I’ve never seen a hot dog this small.”

Ursula looked at it and laughed. “They’re called cocktail sausages and they come in little jars, or sometimes they’re frozen in bags. People wrap them in dough and make pigs in a blanket. They’re yummy.”  She jumped up and grabbed hers and they happily shared a snack on the living room floor, thinking about the troll’s story. They each decided that it was good that cats don’t do silly things like that Gryla did. Cats were too smart for such convoluted traditions.

December 19th

 

FROM:  Clementine <princessclementine@kittymail.com>

TO:        BC & Sparky <rudytoots@catlover.com>

Cc:        Archie <pupsupreme@whosagoodboy.com>

DATE:   12/18/23 7:15am

RE:       Tonight’s troll – try this

Ok, tonight’s troll is Skyrgámur, which means he loves Skyr, that Icelandic yogurt you can get at Shop-Rite.  In a pinch he’d probably eat Greek yogurt, as that’s also pretty thick, although not as tart.  The yarn lady likes the strawberry Skyr best, and I took a lick once since I thought maybe it was like ice cream…cold and sweet.  Nope, it’s cold all right, but it was anything but sweet.  I put some on the yarn lady’s grocery order that she picked up yesterday.  She wondered how it got on the list, since she already had her Dannon Coffee yogurt on there and she didn’t usually get both.  Maybe if you leave the Skyr on the kitchen table he’ll leave a nice treat for you two.

 

FROM:  BC & Sparky <rudytoots@catlover.com>

TO:       Clementine <princessclementine@kittymail.com>

Cc:        Archie <pupsupreme@whosagoodboy.com>

DATE:  12/18/23 2:07pm

RE:       Re: Tonight’s troll – try this

Yeah, I don’t think so.  The daddy thinks yogurt is for old ladies, and he’s not an old lady. MR doesn’t eat it either, but she’s not an old lady either, since she still works. We do have some sour cream though. Maybe the troll would like it if the daddy made it into onion dip? I’ll see if he’ll make some of that. 

------------

The daddy had fallen asleep on the couch, probably from stuffing himself with sour cream and onion dip with spinach in which he’d dipped pumpernickel bread.  He’d been wondering what to make for dinner earlier when Sparky knocked the onion soup mix packet on the floor.  He picked it up, looked at it and decided he felt like a treat.  He'd mixed the soup mix and some squeezed out defrosted spinach into a container of sour cream and let it set for an hour or so to let the dried onion bits moisten up nicely.  There was a series he’d been watching on the History Channel and he settled down with a loaf of pumpernickel and the dip.  He fell asleep somewhere during the third episode. Sparky had fallen asleep during the first one but BC sat up and kept watch.

At around 2:30am, BC heard the refrigerator door open. He padded quietly into the kitchen, cleared his throat and said, “Mr. Skyrgámur, we don’t have any fancy Icelandic yogurt, but there’s a nice bowl of spinach onion dip and pumpernickel in the living room if you’d like that.

The troll jumped and banged his head on a refrigerator shelf. “Ah, um, thank you. You’re not going to try to trap me and hurt me, are you? I’m nothing like my cousin Askasleikir you know. I am grateful for all the Skyr people have, and even the Amerískur yogurts are delicious.  I’m a bit overdone on sweet things, so some spinach and onion dip would be pleasant, is it Westphalian pumpernickel? I do love that.”

“Ah, no, it’s Shop-Rite pumpernickel. And I heard that last night’s Jólasveinarnir was a nice guy, so I’m kind of glad the trap got me instead of him. Clementine confessed she’d tipped him off. Well, enjoy your bread and dip, but try not to wake the guy in there. I don’t know how he’d take sharing his dip with you.”  BC walked into the living room with Skyrgámur and sat ready to distract the daddy if he woke up. 

After Skyrgámur had eaten his fill of dip and bread he waved and headed for the door, stooping to place something in each of the sneakers.  He let himself out the door, closing it quietly.  BC looked at the daddy, asleep on the couch and decided it would be more comfortable to sleep on the bed tonight.  He could spread out on a pillow or burrow under a blanket. Ultimately he decided to head under the blankets, as it was chilly. He turned and eased just his nose out from under the covers, making sure his ears could remain toasty warm under the blanket.

 

December 18th

 

Emails went back and forth furiously on the 17^th whenever Archie and the cats could use a computer unobserved.  BC was determined that he was going to catch tonight’s Jólasveinarnir and teach him a lesson, preferably a painful or humiliating one. Clementine and Ursula urged him to calm down, that maybe Askasleiker was naturally grumpy.  That didn’t mean all the Jólasveinarnir were bad guys. They’d been given cat treats, chocolates and for goodness sake, catnip cows! He’d been the one bad apple on the troll tree, they argued.  Archie, on the other hand, said that the one who came on the 18^th has spent the night slamming doors all over both houses.  It was enough to make anyone jumpy. 

BC’s eyes narrowed when he read that and turned to Sparky. “Are you with me on this, my friend? Let’s kick some troll butt!” Sparky, who was a little alarmed at this change in her usually good-natured friend nodded, wondering what she’d just agreed to do.

After Clementine had given up on dissuading BC from going on a troll hunt, she and Ursula spent some time discussing why a troll would go around slamming doors. Sometimes Pam or the yarn lady slammed their door when they were particularly aggravated with each other.  More often than not it was Pam, as the yarn lady had a much higher frustration tolerance. The one time they had both slammed the door to their bedrooms resulted in Pam staying with her dad for a long time, weeks even. Maybe this would be a grumpy troll. There was really no other reason the two of them could think of as to why someone would slam doors.

Meanwhile, BC spend the afternoon perfecting a troll trap. He and Sparky started by standing books up and then knocking them over. Sparky got bored of it after the 15^th time she pushed over the book and left BC saying she was too tired and needed a nap. BC nodded distractedly, knocking the book over again.  The daddy was out in his radio room working on something, so the cats could act as oddly as they liked.

By the time Sparky woke up BC had an array of items hidden under the TV shelf in the corner. There was a space behind the wood pig for a collection of small items, so it was often used to set up surprises for one of the humans.  You could collect a whole bunch of things there. Sparky had heard from LT who’d lived there when she arrived about one time when the Peep was alive and she’d collected flowers for a Mother’s Day bouquet for MR. She was so happy to have found so many flowers, but when she dragged them out, they were all wilted.  Peep had sat there and cried her little heart out, as she’d wanted to make the Mommy (as she called MR) the best-ever present. MR had come running when Peep started crying and found her amid the wilted flowers.  She’d picked the Peep up, cuddled her and told her what beautiful flowers they were, and how she liked her flowers exactly like that, as she could press them faster. Peep hadn’t known what she meant until a few weeks later when MR had shown her a lovely dried flower arrangement on paper. All of the flowers Peep had gathered were there, but flatter. Sparky smiled, recalling that story.  MR was such a softie.  She wanted everyone to feel good about themselves.

Today there was a very odd collection back there.  One gone-to-seed dandelion in a tiny vase, a whoopie cushion, some string tied to a stick and two blocks of wood, one low and square and the other narrow and long. The narrow block of wood was tied to the other end of the string.  Sparky poked at them, wondering what BC had decided to do. She went looking and found him asleep on the bed.  She climbed up and poked him to ask what he’d decided to do.  He yawned and said she’d see when he set it up. 

 

Not long after midnight Clementine was awakened by the sound of a door shutting very quietly and a low voice humming a tune.  She wandered into the living room and found a rotund fellow, dressed a bit nicer than the other Jólasveinarnir she’d seen so far.  She greeted him and asked why he hadn’t slammed their door.  The troll laughed merrily and introduced himself.  “I am Hurđaskellir, and yes I am supposed to be slamming your doors.  That is because every last one of my ancestors has suffered from horrible seasonal affective disorder. We’re jolly enough folks in the spring, summer and fall, but come winter we’re as grumpy as over-tired bears.  After years of misery, I did some research and found that there are cures for this disorder.  Unfortunately, the main one is plenty of sunlight, but that would turn me into stone, so that would not do.  Happily, there are medications one can take, so for several years now I have been taking them as soon as the days become short enough that there is more dark than light hours, and I keep taking them until there are more hours light than dark.  One a day, and I am a happy troll. So, instead of slamming doors, I give things to keep doors from slamming.”  He held something out to her. It was a small carved cat with long front legs that stretched far out. He took it and wedged it under the front door, demonstrating how it keeps the door from slamming, or even closing for that matter.

“That’s a great idea, Mr. Hurđaskellir. And they’re cats, just like Ursula and I. I’m glad you’re not depressed any more, but I need to warn you about a house you’re probably going to in Jackson.  Last night’s troll was pretty rude and BC decided that he was going to take revenge on all of you.  Please be careful when you go there. It’s a trap just inside the door from the deck and you’re so nice I don’t want you to get hurt.” Clementine’s heart had warmed to the troll’s tale of familial depression and she’d just had to tell him, even if BC never sent her another email.

 

At around 2:30am the Daddy was awakened to the yowls of an angry cat. He jumped out of bed and ran towards the sound, which appeared to be coming from the living room.  He ran in and saw an astonishing sight. BC was under an upturned laundry hamper on the floor, spitting and growling at absolutely nothing.  He decided to leave him there for the moment, as he didn’t want his legs to be shredded by an angry cat.  Instead, he looked around and saw an odd collection of items.  As his eyes went from one to the next, an idea began to grow in his head.

Sparky watched from the couch.  The daddy was pretty good at figuring things out.  Would he figure out this one? When BC was calm, the Daddy let him out, but left the laundry basket where it was.  He walked to the door and opened it, seeing how close it was to the book that was lying on something. He closed the door and stood the book up, finding a rubber thing under it.  He picked it up and saw the lettering on it.  “Genuine Original Whoopie Cushion” In the few moments he’d held it, he noticed it had filled up with air.  He peered inside the narrow floppy part and saw it contained a one-way valve and nodded.

He put the cushion back where it had been and looked at the floor in front of it.  There was a vase with a dead dandelion on it, still with a few seeds attached.  Next to the table there was a long narrow block with a string tied to it, and the other end tied to a short sturdy stick next to where the laundry basket had imprisoned BC. 

The daddy fiddled around for about fifteen minutes and then went into the kitchen, returning with generous handful of cat treats.  Some of these he placed on the floor, after telling the cats to leave them be until he said they could have then.  Sparky eyed them hungrily. The daddy then opened the door, which knocked the book over, falling onto the whoopie cushion.  It made a farting sound and the dandelion swayed a bit.  The daddy dropped some cat treats to the floor and watched as the automated vacuum cleaner MR had bought zoomed out of its base and sucked up the cat treats he’d dropped.  The daddy told the cats they could eat the rest of the treats before the vacuum did.  It continued on, next bumping into the table. That knocked the narrow block off the table and onto the floor, pulling the string that was attached to it and made the stick fall out from where it was supporting the hamper. The hamper came down on Sparky who was munching the last of the cat treats.  She jumped and yowled, just as BC had. 

The daddy laughed and sat down in the green chair. “Okay, who’s been reading my Rube Goldberg book? .You’ve created a letter-perfect Rube Goldberg machine. Things falling down, air current and at the end, whammo! The question is – who were you trying to catch? The cat door won’t let anyone in but you too, you know.  It’s programmed to your microchips.  He yawned, slapped his knees and told the kitties good night and headed back to bed, but not before he let Sparky out from under the laundry basket.

December 17th

Via diligent internet research (which is hard when you have paws, really) the cats knew what to expect for each of the upcoming nights. Tonight they were expecting a troll that ate leftovers out of bowls. Clementine joked with BC and Archie that he’d be in heaven at her place, as Pam rarely finished a complete bowl of anything. Archie said that when a band of Jólasveinarnir had visited New Hamster the troll named Askasleiker had eaten all the squishy food which got a lot of news coverage.  Archie recalled it had been a pretty boring week for news, so it made some sense that it was reported on local radio. Archie said he’d been particularly generous to the cats, leaving a good variety of really fun cat toys. 

Clementine, Ursula, BC and Sparky had all snoozed the day away, hoping to stay awake for a nice chat with the “bowl licker” while he ate whatever leftovers he could find.  Ursula had actually kept Pam from carrying her dinner bowl of chili to the counter in the kitchen by jumping on her lap, trilling and waving her tail in Pam’s face.  Her job done, she snoozed until she heard Pam head for her room a little before midnight.  Clem joined her and they each perched on one of the ends of a long pillow Pam had put on the floor for just that purpose.  They were surprised to hear noises from the yarn lady’s room about an hour later.  She was zonked out in the bed, mouth open and snoring, but from under the bed there was cursing.

“Damn these folks. Why don’t they clean better under their beds. I’m allergic to dust and every single house has dust under the bed!” They watched as an unkempt troll crawled out, covered in dust bunnies (they were way too big to be dust mice). He muffled a sneeze in a raggedy sleeve and glared at them.  “Where’s the bowl? Not a single house has a bowl next to the bed on the floor. You Bandaríkjamenn are so uncivilized!” He shook his fist at the cats and stalked into the living room, looking around.

“There is a lovely bowl of chili on the table Mr. Alkalizer,” Ursula said. The troll gave her a disgusted look and Clem tried hard not to laugh.  Pronunciation of foreign words was not Ursula’s strong suit.  He quickly wolfed down the chili, threw the spoon on the table and banged two dried out potatoes on the table. “Bah, humbug!” he said and stalked out of the condo.  The two cats looked at each other, then the potatoes and then back to each other. 

“We made sure there was food for him, and what does he do? He gives us old potatoes.  These things are more eyes than potatoes. Cheapskate.” Clementine gingerly picked up the potato and headed into the bedroom. She took it outside via the cat door and returned for the second one.  She didn’t want the yarn lady to try to figure out why they were on the table.

 

A few hours later in Jackson, BC and Sparky were also surprised by noises from under the Daddy’s bed.  They were waiting in the kitchen though, knowing that if the troll wanted food, he’d need to come in here.  Askasleiker entered, wiping a cobweb out of one eyebrow.  He sighed as he looked around the kitchen.  The Daddy was much too careful to leave leftovers on the table or counter. He’d finished his dinner, scraped the plate and dropped it in the dishwater.  The cats had figured that tonight’s troll would need to be satisfied with the squishy food and so were watching for his reaction.

The troll poked around the kitchen until he determined that the only thing in a bowl was the squishy cat food.  Sparky knew that he’d love it, as tonight was Mixed Grill, her favorite.  It blended various types of meat together in a finely ground pâté that the Daddy artfully arranged on the plate.  She didn’t know how he got it in that short cylindrical shape every time. He only bothered to do this with the pâtés for some reason.  Askasleiker snorted and said, “so they leave me cat food.” He picked up the bowl, sniffed it and gingerly scooped a tiny bit onto his finger. He touched the finger to his thick tongue and dropped the plate, spitting out whatever he had managed to get on his tongue. He looked at the cats and said, “You are trying to poison me! First, those kitties gave me spicy chili that gave me brjóstsviði, what is that word…heartburn, and now you give me this garbage food.  We would not feed this to the rats in Ísland!”  Glaring at them he pelted them with two dried up potatoes. “That is what I think of your food – I would rather eat rotten potatoes than this, this, swill!” He stomped out of the room and into the living room where he kicked the sneakers across the room before leaving. 

BC looked at the floor, where the bowl lay broken with little bits of glazed ceramic stuck in the Mixed Grill.  He looked up at Sparky, growled and said, “No more Mr. Nice Cat. I declare it open season on trolls.” He stomped off into the bedroom (which is tough to do if you’re a cat, really), jumped up on the bed and snuggled against the Daddy.  If anything would make him feel better it was a nice, caring human.  BC wormed his way under the Daddy’s arm, and the other one reached across and stroked BC while the Daddy mumbled something incoherent.  Smiling a tiny bit, BC began to purr and daydreamed about MR, imagining what she’d do if she encountered a nasty Jólasveinarnir. She’d pound him into the ground, he thought as he drifted off to sleep.