The Dagda’s Cauldron of Plenty

The Dagda had a belly like a drum and a laugh like a door flung open, and his cauldron never ran empty. You could put twenty ladles in at once and still it would feed a latecomer with a second helping and a story besides. But abundance without order is like a feast without chairs.

When the Tuatha Dé Danann were lean from hard seasons, the Dagda stirred while the others set bowls and made room. Warriors placed their spears outside so they would not be tempted to eat and argue at once. Bards put their harps down, for a full mouth makes poor poetry. Children were given the first ladles so they could be sent off to play and not be trampled by gratitude.

A stranger came with a big idea and a small bowl. “Give me the biggest ladle,” he said, “and I’ll prove your cauldron fails.”

The Dagda smiled and handed him a ladle big as a door. The stranger staggered under it and slopped stew into his boots. “Eat what you can carry,” said the Dagda kindly, and the hall laughed the way a hall laughs when reminded of sense.

That night, no one went hungry and no one went proud. The cauldron burbled like a contented stream; the steam drew playful antlers and crowns before vanishing—which is how the cauldron remembered that kings are best when they remember kitchens.

If you keep your bowl clean and your elbow out of your neighbor’s portion, you may find the Dagda’s spirit in any pot that shares more than it counts. The magic is not in the iron but in the sharing.