The Fantastic Family Whipple Read Online Free

Christmas gravy.”
    Soon, the gigantic piece of French toast was dangling directly overhead, and the helicopter began to lower its cargo. As the hunk of eggy bread came to rest on the table, the chef unhooked the cables and gave the all-clear signal to Wilhelm (World’s Strongest German, Mr. Whipple’s valet, butler, and now helicopter pilot), who winched up the cables and headed off over the treetops.
    The table itself was round and very large—about fifteen feet in diameter—but the piece of French toast was so enormous, its corners drooped over the table’s edge and nearly touched the ground.
    Arthur now recalled the smells he’d detected wafting out from the World’s Largest Bread Oven when he’d gone to the kitchen to leave a package for Sammy the day before. It seemed this was but one slice of the Largest Loaf of Bread Ever Baked.
    Patting the shoulder of Mrs. Waite, who looked on with eyes agog and mouth agape, the chef stepped forward to introduce the dish. Though Sammy the Spatula was known for his colossal cuisine, he prided himself not in its size, but in its quality.
    “Got the recipe off an old Canadian mate of mine—‘Syrupy’ Curtis Carmichael,” the chef explained, “but I like to fink it were me who perfected it. Not only is it the
Largest
Piece of French Toast Ever Made, this—it’s also the
Tastiest
.” Opening the doors on his steaming serving cart, he retrieved a spray nozzle attached to a thick rubber hose. “And ’ow else do you finish off the World’s Largest, Tastiest Piece of French Toast but wiv the World’s Creamiest Butter—and syrup from the World’s Oldest Living Maple Tree?”
    Sammy moved his safety goggles into position, lifted the hose, and began spraying melted butter over the face of the French toast. When he was satisfied with a generous golden coat, he retrieved a second hose and began dousing it with warm maple syrup.
    By the time he had finished, a mixture of maple syrup and butter was dripping over the edges and onto the ground. Returning the syrup hose to its receptacle, Sammy closed the serving cart doors.
    “And now,” he declared, “the finishing touch: a sprinkling of the Finest Ground Icing Sugar on the Planet.” Removing the lid from a large, long-handled pot, he grabbed the handle with both hands, then flung it forward like a massive lacrosse stick, emptying its contents into the air.
    When the cloud had settled, the Whipples raised their goggles, revealing large white circles around their eyes, and got their first look at the finished culinary work of art that lay before them.
    “Couldn’t have painted it better myself,” Charlotte said matter-of-factly.
    It was truly a masterpiece of French toast. Its dark, golden-brown edges stood in stark contrast to the snow-white sugar that had settled on its summit. Giant crannies on its upper face formed tide pools of butter and syrup. Steam curled off its surface as the hot glaze met with the crisp morning air.
    “Incredible…” gasped Mrs. Waite.
    “Indeed,” Uncle Mervyn replied, glancing affectionately at the new housekeeper. As he extracted a tape measure from his jacket pocket, he added, “I’d—er—I’d be happy to give you a tour of the estate’s other wonders sometime—away from all these young whippersnappers—I mean, if you’d like, of course.”
    “Why, Mr. McCleary,” grinned Mrs. Waite, “I’d be delighted.”
    Uncle Mervyn gave a blushing smile, then flashed a thumbs-up to Arthur—and set about obtaining French toast measurements and marking them down on his clipboard. He then snapped several photographs of the Whipple family and their giant breakfast, to be used for publication exclusively in the
Grazelby Guide
, as per the Whipples’ long-standing and highly lucrative sponsorship contract.
    With all the official business completed, Sammy cut off the bread’s crust with a machete, then simply said, “Enjoy.”
    The Whipples moved their chairs up to the table—and