“In Laiputria, one sits in the shade of fruit trees and plucks ripe fruit, the best there is. Fried chickens fly the skies, and sausages hang from tree branches. Nobody goes hungry, ever, ever.” But then Mother would nod her head gravely: “There is a small catch.”
“Oh no!” I would
cry. “What is the catch?”
She’d explain with a sigh: “This wonderland is surrounded by a mountain of porridge. To get there, one needs to eat a tunnel through the porridge.”
My brother Robert and I held a secret conference.
We figured we could cheat a little:
But Osvalds, our older, wiser and nastier brother, shot us down mid-slope: “Laiputria is not in the center of a crater like a volcano, you silly. It is covered with porridge, like gold is in the center of the mountain. You can’t dive down into it.” Ah well.
Mother comforted us: “You can always eat your way into Laiputria, kids. A good way to start is to eat your breakfast. Bowl by bowl, you get to Laiputria.”