Once upon a time, a weary traveler trudged through a deep forest. He’d been in the woods for several days, had quite run out of food, and had entirely lost his way.

And this was not the only thing that he’d lost. He’d also lost his farm, his wife, and had even lost his name (which had been ‘Jack’). In fact, he'd lost everything but what he carried on his back.

As he continued on through the forest the trees thinned a little, and he came into a clearing. A small, well tended cottage stood in the middle of the clearing, and, scratching his beard, he made his way to the door. His knock was answered by an old lady, who glared at him suspiciously.

“I’m not wanting any!” she snapped, and made as if to slam the door in his face.

“Wait! My dear woman…” he pleaded. “Have pity on a tired and hungry traveler!”

“I’ve got nothin' t’ eat meself, my cupboards is plain bare, they are!” she complained.

“I’m not asking you to give me a thing, I merely wish the loan of a soup pot, for just long enough to cook up some of my Magic Soup!”

“Magic, eh?” The woman frowned dubiously at him over her horn rimmed glasses. “And what makes this soup of yours so magic?”

“Why, my magic piece of soap, dear lady!” With a flourish, he produced from his tunic a misshapen lump of soap, of a sickly greenish color. “Just a sliver of this soap in a pot of water makes the heartiest, most delicious soup you’ve ever tasted!”

“Well!” Her eyes widened with wonder, but then narrowed again with suspicion. “So you’ll be needin’ water from me, then…” she accused.

“Well, madam, without water it wouldn’t rightly be soup, t’would be more of a stew, you might say,” he acknowledged.

Water cost her nothing, as there was a creek running just back of the house, so she consented. “Ach, I suppose I could let ye have a bit of water. Soap stew does sound rather nasty” she said. “Though, now’s I think of it, so does soap soup…”

She hobbled back into her cottage, and soon emerged with a bucket of spring water and a large black iron soup cauldron.

He rummaged in his sack, withdrew a flint and made a show of starting a small fire, around which he placed several stones. Seemingly taking no notice of the woman, he sliced 3 thin slivers of the soap into the pot, and muttered words made mysterious by the way he rolled all of the ‘R’s. He soon had the pot steaming, and asked if he might borrow a spoon.

“Next ye’ll be wanting table linen,” she muttered, but, nonetheless, brought him a large soup spoon.

With elaborate, overdone gestures he dipped in and took a taste.

‘Bleeah!’ he said, and spat it onto the ground, where it left a clean spot.

“What’s wrong with ye’re magic soup?” The old woman mocked, though, despite herself she was intrigued with the whole procedure.

“It, gack! It just needs a potato,” he explained. “It’s not too bad as it is, but with a potato it would truly be heavenly!”

“It’s just possible that I might have an old potato hiding deep in the cupboard, sprouting eyes,” she said in tones of foreboding.

Sure enough, she soon emerged with not one, but two fine fresh looking potatoes.

He cut the potatoes into the now boiling water, and sat back. While they waited for the potatoes to cook he told her of some of his adventures…

…About the three princesses he was to choose among for a bride, and the haste with which he had to flee the kingdom after seducing their mother, the queen.

About his quest for the Philosophers Stone, and his disappointment on finding it merely transmuted metals (lead into gold- Yawn!) , and had nothing to offer on the nature of life.

About his terrible battle with the Giant Snails, and how he had to fight them off while not wearing any pants...

“Which reminds me,” he said. “Might you have a wee pinch of salt? Nothing helps the taste of a soup like salt.”

Emerging from the reverie into which his tales had thrown her, she produced some salt with less grumbling than before.

He salted liberally, then took a taste. “It’s beginning to taste rather good,” he said unconvincingly, “but the color’s all wrong! If I only had a carrot…” he trailed off, a wistful expression on his face.

“Ach, Carrots you want now?” She complained, but soon returned with several small, but juicy and tender carrots.

The soup was now burbling away merrily, and suds were floating on top. He dipped his spoon, took a taste, and raised his head, looking a little rabid.

As he lamented the lack of onions, herbs, celery, parsnips and such, she produced each one in turn- Onions from her small garden out back, herbs from the windowsill, celery from the celereller, parsnips from the parsonage.

With each addition the soup smelled better, and at last he proclaimed it done. “Ahh, it’s near perfect!” He cried. “And a hearty meal it would make, if we but had a loaf of bread!”

Well, she didn’t even fuss, just went into her cottage, and emerged with two freshly baked loaves of bread, as well as two large bowls, and they both sat down to eat.

They both agreed that it would be a very fine soup, if only it didn’t taste quite so much of soap.

The End