The Netherlands had a way of confusing him that most countries did not. Perhaps it was the 112 years in the Alps, or maybe it was the scent of the whole place, but if he ever landed and attempted to walk any number of yards he would find himself hopelessly lost. Sighing softly, and massaging a wing, he looked down from the wall he was sat upon before he heard someone coming up the path. Knowing how sore his wings were at the moment, he immediately resigned himself to a new meeting and he straightened his vest. Hopefully whoever they were, they wouldn’t be too disturbed by his appearance.
Two nations baking for a third and miserably failing at it c:
“It is clearly 25 grams yeast and one spoonful vanilla sugar,” Netherlands hissed under his breath, only seconds away from flinging flour into Norway’s face.
“Not a fucking chance,” Norway hissed back “two teaspoons of vanilla sugar and no yeast,”
“You’re deluded. Waffles need yeast,”
“No they fucking don’t,”
“What are you two idiots arguing over now?”
Netherlands froze at the sound of his sister, clearing his throat and pointing a finger at Norway accusingly.
“This idiot thinks waffles don’t need yeast,”
“Really?” Belgium arched an eyebrow and turned to Norway; who was arming himself with a handful of flour and moments away from launching it at the Dutchman.
“Waffles need vanilla sugar, eggs, milk, butter, flour and some cardamom. Yeast is not in the recipe,” he grumbled, glaring at the Netherlands.
“They will be flat and dull! We need yeast! And none of this cardamom nonsense,”
Belgium rolled her eyes and shooed the men out of the kitchen with a stern glare.
“I ask you to fix lunch, but even that is beyond the both of you. Go do some hoovering and dusting. I’ll fix food for us.”
“Your fault,” she heard her brother mutter to Norway as they left the kitchen.