My youngest drags the stools to the center of the dining room. On one she sits the cash register and the felt shopping baskets. On the other, she carefully lays out the groceries. Little wooden apples and pears sit next to felt oranges, grapes, kiwi fruit, watermelon, sausages, fish, bread rolls, a leek and an aubergine.
‘We’re open,’ she calls out.
‘Goode Morgen,’ I say, practicing my dutch.
‘Goode Morgen,’ she says, smiling shyly.
‘Mag ik heb een wortel?’ May I have a carrot I ask because it’s the only one I remember.
Google translate and I proceed this way until my basket is full. I go to hand her money, but instead she hands me money.
‘Dag,’ I call out, goodbye, liking this version of shopping.
My youngest resets the shop for her sister to come, but her sister refuses to play the way my youngest wants her to. ‘No shop for you,’ she cries, morping into a pint sized angelic soup nazi.