Sweet Porridge

In a small village nestled between rolling hills and green meadows, there lived a poor widow named Martha and her young daughter, Greta. They lived in a tiny cottage at the edge of the village, and though they worked hard, they often struggled to put enough food on their simple wooden table.

Greta was a kind and thoughtful child of about ten years old, with bright eyes and a gentle heart. She never complained about their meager meals or their humble circumstances, and she always tried to help her mother in whatever way she could. When other children in the village were playing games or attending festivals, Greta was usually helping with household chores or tending their small garden.

One particularly difficult winter, Martha and Greta found themselves facing their worst hardship yet. The harvest had been poor, food prices had risen, and Martha’s work as a seamstress brought in very little money. They had eaten the last of their bread three days earlier, and both mother and daughter were growing weak from hunger.

“My dear child,” Martha said one morning as she looked into their empty larder, “I’m afraid we have nothing left to eat. I will go to the village today and see if anyone has work for me or if the baker might spare us a crust of bread.”

Greta nodded bravely, though she felt dizzy from hunger. “I’ll stay here and tend the fire, Mother. Perhaps I can find some edible roots in the forest behind our house.”

With heavy hearts, mother and daughter parted ways. Martha walked toward the village square, while Greta ventured into the woods, searching for anything that might ease their hunger.

As Greta wandered deeper into the forest, she came upon a clearing she had never seen before. In the center of the clearing sat an elderly woman on a fallen log. The woman was very old, with silver hair and kind, twinkling eyes. She wore a simple gray dress and a warm shawl, and she seemed to be waiting for someone.

“Good morning, child,” the old woman said in a voice like gentle music. “You look tired and sad. What troubles you on this beautiful day?”

Greta, who had been taught to be polite to her elders, curtsied respectfully. “Good morning, grandmother. I am searching for roots or berries that my mother and I might eat. We have had no food for three days, and we are very hungry.”

The old woman’s expression filled with compassion. “Oh, you poor dear child. It grieves my heart to hear of such suffering, especially when it affects someone so young and innocent. Tell me, have you and your mother been kind to others, even during your own difficulties?”

“We try to be,” Greta replied honestly. “My mother taught me that kindness costs nothing to give, and that we should help others whenever possible, even if we have little ourselves.”

The old woman smiled warmly. “What a wise mother you have, and what a good child you are. I think I can help you with your hunger problem.”

The woman reached into a large basket that Greta hadn’t noticed before and pulled out a small iron pot. It was simple and plain, with no decorations or special markings, but it seemed to glow with a faint, warm light.

“This is a very special pot,” the old woman explained. “When you are hungry, simply place it on your fire and say, ‘Little pot, boil!’ and it will make the most delicious, nutritious porridge you have ever tasted. The pot will continue to make porridge until you say, ‘Little pot, stop!’ Remember those words carefully, child—they are very important.”

Greta accepted the pot with wonder and gratitude. “Thank you so much, grandmother! But surely this gift is too precious. What can I give you in return?”

The old woman stood up and shouldered her basket. “Your kindness and gratitude are payment enough, dear child. Use the pot wisely, and remember to share your good fortune with others when you can.”

Before Greta could ask any more questions, the old woman walked back into the forest and disappeared among the trees, leaving the girl alone with her magical gift.

Greta hurried home, clutching the precious pot carefully. When she arrived at their cottage, she found her mother sitting dejectedly by the cold fireplace.

“Mother!” Greta called excitedly. “Look what I’ve brought! A kind old woman in the forest gave me this magic pot. She said it will make porridge for us!”

Martha looked at her daughter with concern. “Oh, my dear child, I’m afraid hunger may be affecting your mind. There’s no such thing as magic pots.”

But Greta was already placing the pot on their fire and speaking the words the old woman had taught her: “Little pot, boil!”

Immediately, the pot began to bubble and steam. Within moments, it was filled with thick, creamy porridge that smelled absolutely heavenly. The aroma filled their small cottage, making both mother and daughter’s mouths water.

“Little pot, stop!” Greta said quickly, and the pot immediately ceased its magical cooking.

Martha stared in amazement as Greta ladled the warm porridge into their bowls. They ate hungrily, and found that the porridge was not only delicious but incredibly satisfying. Just a small portion filled them completely and gave them more energy than they had felt in weeks.

From that day forward, Greta and her mother never went hungry again. Whenever they needed food, Greta would simply command the little pot to cook, and it would provide them with plenty of nourishing porridge.

But Greta remembered the old woman’s lesson about sharing good fortune with others. Soon, she began inviting hungry neighbors to their cottage for meals. The widow next door, who was even poorer than they were, became a regular guest. Children whose parents were struggling were always welcome at Greta and Martha’s table.

Word began to spread through the village about the wonderful porridge that Greta’s family somehow always had available. People marveled at how the poor widow and her daughter had suddenly become so generous with food, but Greta and Martha kept the secret of the magic pot to themselves.

One day, Martha had to travel to the next village to deliver some sewing work. Before she left, she hugged Greta and gave her the usual warnings about being careful while alone.

“Remember to keep the doors locked, don’t talk to strangers, and be sure to eat properly while I’m gone,” Martha said.

“Don’t worry about me, Mother,” Greta replied. “I’ll use the pot to make myself lunch, and I’ll save some porridge for you when you return this evening.”

After Martha left, Greta spent the morning tending their garden and doing household chores. When lunchtime came, she placed the magic pot on the fire and said the familiar words: “Little pot, boil!”

The pot began making its delicious porridge as always. But just as Greta was about to command it to stop, she heard a commotion outside. Running to the window, she saw that the baker’s cart had overturned in the street, spilling loaves of bread everywhere. Several villagers were helping to collect the scattered bread.

Without thinking, Greta ran outside to help, completely forgetting about the magic pot that was still bubbling away on her fire.

She spent several minutes helping the baker gather his bread and right his cart. When the crisis was resolved and Greta finally returned to her cottage, she was horrified to discover what had happened in her absence.

The magic pot had continued cooking the entire time she was gone. Porridge had filled the pot, overflowed onto the stove, spread across the floor, and was now beginning to flow out the front door of the cottage!

“Little pot, stop!” Greta cried out, but it was too late to prevent the chaos that had already begun.

The porridge had flowed out of the cottage and was now moving down the village street like a slow, creamy river. Villagers came running from their houses, shouting in alarm as the warm porridge surrounded their feet and began rising higher.

“What is this?” cried the blacksmith as porridge flowed into his workshop.

“Where is all this porridge coming from?” demanded the miller as the sweet-smelling substance poured through his mill.

The porridge continued its unstoppable flow, filling the village square, lapping at doorsteps, and causing general panic among the residents. Children were delighted by the unusual situation and began scooping up handfuls of the delicious porridge to eat, but their parents were concerned about the mysterious flood.

Some villagers grabbed buckets and began trying to scoop up the porridge, while others climbed onto rooftops to escape the rising tide of breakfast food. The village dogs were having a wonderful time, barking excitedly and eating as much porridge as they could manage.

Just as the situation was reaching truly disastrous proportions, Martha returned from her journey to the neighboring village. She took one look at the chaos and immediately understood what had happened.

“Greta!” she called as she waded through the knee-deep porridge toward their cottage. “Where are you?”

“Here, Mother!” Greta’s voice came from inside their house, where she was standing on a chair to keep above the porridge level. “I’m so sorry! I forgot to stop the pot when I went to help the baker!”

Martha struggled through the porridge to reach their cottage. Once inside, she saw the magic pot still sitting on the fire, now quiet but having created an enormous mess.

Together, mother and daughter began the difficult task of cleaning up. They organized the village children to help eat as much of the porridge as possible, and they recruited adults to help scoop the remaining porridge into buckets and pots for distribution to needy families in the area.

The cleanup took the entire rest of the day and well into the evening. By the time they were finished, every family in the village had enough porridge to last them for weeks, and the village itself was finally clear of the sweet mess.

The mayor of the village came to speak with Greta and Martha once the cleanup was complete. “I don’t know how you managed to produce so much porridge,” he said with a puzzled expression, “but I must say, it was delicious, and it has certainly solved our recent food shortage problems.”

Greta looked at her mother uncertainly, not sure how much they should reveal about the magic pot.

Martha smiled diplomatically. “We’re just glad we could help feed the village, even if it happened in such an unusual way.”

From that day forward, Greta was much more careful when using the magic pot. She never again left it unattended while it was cooking, and she always made sure to give the stop command as soon as she had enough porridge for her intended purpose.

The villagers, for their part, never quite figured out the source of the great porridge flood, but they remembered it fondly as one of the most unusual and well-fed days in their village’s history.

Greta continued to use the magic pot to help feed hungry neighbors and visitors, but she always did so carefully and responsibly. The experience had taught her that even the most wonderful gifts come with the responsibility to use them wisely.

Years later, when Greta had grown up and had children of her own, she would tell them the story of the magic pot and the great porridge flood. She always ended the tale with the same lesson: “Magic is a wonderful thing, but it must always be used with care, attention, and consideration for others. The most powerful gifts require the most responsible handling.”

The magic pot remained in Greta’s family for many generations, passed down from mother to daughter along with the important lessons about kindness, generosity, and the careful use of power. And though there were a few more minor porridge incidents over the years, none ever quite matched the scale of the great flood that had once covered an entire village in sweet, delicious breakfast.