The Little Pot That Boiled

Mama Georgiana heaved a heavy sigh. "This is the last of our money, my little Sasha. Take it to the market for me, my girl, for I am too weak. Buy us some beans and then we will have one last meal before we die."

Sasha glanced up at her hardworking mother's eyes for a moment and saw a brokenness that cracked her own little heart. "Alright, Mama. I'll be back soon." The little girl with hair like a horse's walked down to where their broken-cobble path met the dust of the main road and turned to look at their humble home. Though it was small, it was quite lovely when one took the time to truly see it. Flowers on wild vines framed the windows and buttercups laughed in the morning sunlight.

Turning onto the main road, Sasha trotted into town. Halfway to the grocer's, an old man sitting by a cart hailed her to stop. "Little girl, where are you going?"

"Into town, sir, to buy some beans." Sasha paused her cheerful gait to answer the kindly old man.

"Why buy beans when you can have more than the insufficient handful of food your coins may buy?"

Sasha gazed into the squinting eyes of the old man, whose hair was white but topped with a cap of tweed. The old man lounged on his chair by his rickety cart, and though his eyes saw nothing, for he was blind, they were full of wisdom.

"Because that is all we can afford, sir," murmured the girl with hair like a horse's.

The blind man laughed heartily. "Go buy those beans and come back here with them. I will have a surprise waiting for you."

Turning quizzically, Sasha continued her trek into town, passing booths full of all of the handsome merchandise one could dream up: fowl, cattle, carvings, stained glass, fresh fruits and veggies, silk from far away places, and so much more. Many people jostled her, hurriedly scampering hither and thither, eager to complete their business. Finally to the grocer's she arrived, and purchased a trifle of beans, which Sasha poured into her flour sack. There was such a meager number of beans in the sack that you could hardly tell anything was in it. It was just enough for Mama Georgiana and Sasha to eat one final meal.

The bustle of the busy market had wiped the request of the blind old man from her mind. As she passed him again on the dusty pathway, she heard her name, "Sasha! Did you buy the beans?"

Brought back to earth from her hunger, she quipped, "How do you know my name, sir? I never told you."

"There are many secrets and mysteries in this life, child. You will grow old enough to learn many of them for yourself. Come closer."

Sasha timidly approached the old man.

"If you will give me those beans, I will give you this pot." From underneath his cart the man drew a small, rusty old cauldron. It was hardly large enough to hold one meal's worth of beans. (This is where we get the saying, "Ain't worth beans.")

"What would I want that for? We haven't anything to cook in it. Besides, it is very small and rusty." The kind girl's patience grew thin, for she was hungry and wanted to go home to her mother.

"Oh, this pot is special, my girl. Though you put nothing in it to cook, it will give you food if only you recite these words: 'Boil, little pot, boil!'"

At the sound of this phrase, the little pot began to hiss and shudder, and the bottom of the little pot sprouted grains of porridge: hot, steaming, and sweet.

Sasha gasped in surprise as she stared at the growing heap of porridge in the little rusty pot. The blind man smiled at Sasha's shock. "Little Sasha, would you join me for a midday meal of porridge before you run off with this pot?"

"Thank you kind sir, but I must get home quickly for my mother is sick. Also, I cannot accept such a wonderful gift. I've nothing to pay you with!"

"Beans are payment enough for me, young one! Take this pot and be on your way. Just remember this important rule: when you've had enough porridge, you must command the little pot to stop boiling. To do this, you must say: 'Stop, little pot, stop!'" At these words the pot ceased its cooking.

"Yes, sir. I will remember." Sasha traded the old man her beans and gingerly accepted the little pot. "Sir, you must have the porridge already in this pot, for your kindness has saved our lives." She scraped out all of the porridge and placed it in a bowl from the blind man's cart and handed it to him.

After saying goodbye, Sasha ran home with the little rusted pot. Bursting through the door, she called, "Mama, mama! Look what I have!" Rushing to the bedroom, she found her mother asleep. "Wake up, Mama. I have something for you."

Dismay and horror broke upon Mama Georgiana's groggy face. "What on earth have you done, child?!" She rubbed the sleep from her eyes, not sure if she was dreaming or if hunger had tampered with her mind. "That's not a handful of beans, it's a useless, ugly pot! Now we will surely die!"

"But Mama, wait! Watch!" Sasha brought her mother by the hand to the kitchen where she placed the pot on the table and commanded, "Boil, little pot, boil!" The pot began to hiss and shudder. After a few moments, porridge bubbled happily to the top of the little rusted pot. "Stop little pot, stop!" Tears filled Sasha's eyes, a smile beamed over her face.

Mama Georgiana began to cry. "Where on earth did you find such a blessing?"

"Just from some kind old man on the road. It is a gift, he said. Here, Mama, eat some porridge! As much as you like."

After the happy mother and daughter finished filling their hungry bellies with the most delicious porridge they had ever tasted, Mama Georgiana asked more questions of Sasha's adventure to the market. Sasha told her all that happened.

So passed a fortnight, and Mama Georgiana and Sasha regained their strength. Mama Georgiana was now well and strong, able to find work washing clothes for many people all over their mountain hamlet. Sasha spent her days reading and playing with friends, for she was still too young for work. One day, Mama Georgiana was home to rest from her busy work while Sasha went to play with her companions.

Mama Georgiana's belly rumbled. "Boil little pot, boil!" she commanded the tiny pot, which had been cleaned and shined like new. The pot hissed and sputtered, and soon sweet porridge bubbled to the brim. Mama Georgiana was so hungry that she took a bowl of porridge from the tiny pot and went to sit outside on the garden bench, but forgot to ask the pot to stop. As she ate, the porridge kept boiling until it boiled over the edge of the table, spilling onto the floor.

Mama Georgiana shrieked in horror when she turned around and saw porridge all over the floor. "Little pot, what are you doing?! Halt little pot, halt!" she cried, rushing into the house to mop the fallen porridge with her apron. The pot boiled on, and now the porridge had flowed through the doorway. Through warm, sticky porridge she waded, and upon the garden bench Mama Georgiana climbed to escape from the hot cereal.

"Cease little pot, cease!" she shouted. Still, the little pot boiled and boiled, until the porridge had flowed to the gate at the end of the pathway!

"Oh, pause, little pot, please pause!" yelled the terrified Mama Georgiana. Away the porridge sped, down the road and into town.

Sasha was visiting the library with her friends when she heard cries of wonder and shock in the square. Curious what could be causing such a ruckus, she ran to the window of the library and saw the river of golden, fragrant porridge pouring into town. "Oh, no..." she whispered.

Out of the door Sasha sprinted, leaving her friends in the town. Sasha sped home, her books bobbing in her haversack, poking her in the back with each stride. Rounding the corner to their garden, Sasha cried, "Mama, what happened?"

In tears Mama Georgiana yelled, "I have forgotten the words!"

"Stop little pot, stop!" shouted Sasha, standing knee-deep in steaming porridge.

As soon as it had begun, the little pot stopped brewing porridge. The mother and daughter pair stared at each other, then began to use garden shovels and hoes to clean up the mess. They brought in the new pigs and the new goats to help eat up the gooey porridge. After the panic of the moment passed, they could hear exclamations of joy waft to their humble cottage from the town nearby.

"Such wonderful food! Have you ever tasted such heavenly porridge? We shall never be hungry again!" These were some of the joyous words they heard. The pair looked into each other's eyes, and knew what they should do.

From that day forward, Mama Georgiana and little Sasha brought all of the unfortunate, hungry people from their tiny mountain village to their cottage to feed them as much porridge as they could eat. No one went hungry again, and all regained their dignity because of the kindness of an old man, a mother, and a girl with hair like a horse's.

-

This fable is one my mother used to tell to me before bed. Often, she would recite stories to us rather than read them. They were stories from her own childhood, the bindings and pages of which were long lost to time. I love how she did this, as it hearkens back to humanity's roots.

The story of The Little Pot That Boiled was my favorite as a child. As a parent myself now, I recently stumbled across a Chinese retelling called The Runaway Wok, retold by Ying Chang Compenstine. I was so excited to find another version of the story I loved as a kid! It thrills me even more that my toddler loves this book. Though its telling is different in many ways, the core of the story remains the same and so does the moral: generosity creates joy and peace.

I believe my family's version of this tale originates from Germany, though more research shows it comes from central Europe in general. It seems to be like so many myths throughout history, though; many stories, such as Prometheus or Atlas, weave their way through all cultures. The story of The Little Pot That Boiled is no different. I have found versions in Anglican, German, Chinese, and others.

The food is different in each retelling; sometimes soup, sometimes porridge, sometimes noodles, sometimes many different dishes. The gifter of the pot is sometimes a passerby, sometimes a fairy, witch or peddler.

This tale has a solid home in my heart because of the mystery and kindness knitted within. The gifter is mysterious, and seemingly comes out of nowhere with the intent of sowing good instead of evil. They intentionally plant a useful tool with an honorable character, knowing all people will eventually benefit from it. The honorable one, often a pure-hearted child, thinks beyond their own needs to honor their parents and their community.

Stories of virtue and kindness will never lose their place around the campfire of humanity. I hope you enjoy this story as much as I do.