Sweet Porridge

Sweet Porridge

Once upon a time, a girl named Marichka lived with her mother in a little house at the edge of a village. They loved each other, kept their home neat, and knew how to take pleasure in the simplest things: a sunny morning, warm rain, or a ripe apple on the old apple tree.

But one year, the harvest was poor. Their supplies quickly ran out, and one morning, Marichka’s mother looked into the pantry, turned over the last little sack, and sadly shook her head.

“We have almost nothing left today,” she said. “But don’t worry, my dear. We’ll think of something.”

Marichka could see that her mother was trying to smile even though things were difficult. So the girl took a basket and went into the forest. She hoped to find berries, nuts, or at least a few edible roots.

The forest was quiet. Sunlight streamed through the leaves in golden patches, a woodpecker tapped somewhere nearby, and butterflies circled above the grass in a clearing.

Marichka was about to turn home when she saw an old woman in a grey scarf sitting beside an ancient oak. The woman sat on a stump and held a small clay pot in her hands.

“Good day, child,” she greeted her. “Why do you look so thoughtful?”

Marichka answered politely and told her that there was no food left at home.

The old woman listened carefully, then held out the pot.

“Take this. It is small, but it is no ordinary pot.”

Marichka looked inside in surprise. The pot was empty.

“What can it do?”

“Whenever you want porridge, put it on the table and say, ‘Cook, little pot, cook!’ Then it will make sweet, fragrant porridge. And when you have enough, say, ‘Stop, little pot, stop!’ It will stop immediately.”

“Is it really that simple?”

“Exactly,” the old woman smiled. “Just remember both phrases.”

Marichka thanked her, hugged the pot to her chest, and ran home.

“Mama, look what I brought!”

She put the pot on the table and said:

“Cook, little pot, cook!”

At first, nothing happened. Her mother was just about to ask whether it might be an ordinary pot after all when a soft bubbling came from inside.

Bubble, bubble, bubble.

A sweet aroma of milk, honey, and cinnamon filled the room. The porridge rose almost to the rim, thick, warm, and creamy.

Marichka quickly said:

“Stop, little pot, stop!”

At once, the pot grew quiet.

Her mother tasted a spoonful.

“What a wonder!” she laughed. “I have never eaten porridge this delicious.”

From then on, they no longer feared hunger. Whenever it was time for breakfast or supper, Marichka said the magic words, and the pot cooked exactly as much porridge as they needed.

Several days passed.

One day, Marichka went to a neighbor’s house to return a ball of yarn. Her mother stayed home alone. Before long, she grew hungry and thought:

“Why should I wait for Marichka? I saw how it works.”

She placed the pot on the table and confidently said:

“Cook, little pot, cook!”

The pot immediately began to bubble. Porridge rose to the brim, and the mother filled a large bowl for herself.

“Delicious!” she said. “Now that’s enough.”

But the pot kept cooking.

Bubble, bubble, bubble.

“Well… enough,” the mother repeated.

The porridge rose over the rim and slowly flowed onto the table.

“Stop, pot!”

The pot did not stop.

The mother tried to remember the magic words.

“Stay! Stop cooking! Enough porridge! Stop at once!”

But none of those phrases worked.

Porridge ran from the table onto the floor. The mother pushed a bowl under the stream. It filled in an instant. Then she tried a bucket. Then the biggest cooking pot in the house.

Still, the little pot kept cooking.

Before long, the kitchen was ankle-deep in porridge.

The mother climbed onto a stool.

“Oh dear… What was that second magic sentence?”

The porridge rose higher.

The mother moved from the stool to a chair, from the chair to a bench, and from the bench to the windowsill. She was no longer angry at the pot. In fact, she was beginning to find the whole thing funny.

“Well, I see you’ve decided to feed not only us, but the entire village!”

Meanwhile, the porridge flowed through the doorway into the yard. A chicken cautiously stepped one foot into the warm sweet mass, clucked in surprise, and quickly flew onto the fence. The cat leaped onto the woodpile. The dog climbed onto a barrel and watched from above with such a serious expression that it looked as though he were directing the rescue operation.

The porridge crept along the path toward the neighboring house.

“What in the world is happening over there?” the neighbor called.

“Our magical breakfast has gotten out of control!” Marichka’s mother shouted back.

The neighbors rushed out carrying spoons, bowls, pitchers, and baskets. They tried to scoop up the porridge, but the little pot cooked faster than the whole village could eat.

And then Marichka appeared on the road.

She stopped and opened her eyes wide.

The street in front of their house had turned white and fluffy, as though it had been covered not with snow but with warm sweet porridge.

“Mama!” Marichka called. “What happened?”

“I forgot the words!” her mother shouted from the window.

Marichka lifted the hem of her dress, carefully made her way closer, and called out clearly:

“Stop, little pot, stop!”

At that very moment, everything became quiet.

No bubbling. No new porridge. Only a whole sea of what had already been cooked.

For several seconds, everyone stood in silence. Then someone laughed. Someone else joined in. Before long, the whole village was roaring with laughter.

“Well then,” said an elderly neighbor, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes, “at least no one will have to cook supper tonight.”

People brought plates, cups, and bowls. Some of the porridge was given to families who had little food at home. Some was carried to travelers. Some was eaten right there in the street while people sat on benches telling one another funny stories.

To cross the most porridge-covered parts of the road, they practically had to eat pathways through them with their spoons.

That evening, Marichka’s mother hugged her.

“Now I will definitely remember both phrases.”

“So will I,” the girl laughed. “The first begins the miracle, and the second helps stop it at the right time.”

From then on, the pot continued to serve them faithfully. But Marichka’s mother never again spoke the first magic phrase unless she was absolutely certain she remembered the second.

And for a long time afterward, the village remembered the day when there was so much sweet porridge that it seemed enough to feed the whole world.

And for a long time afterward, the village remembered the day when there was so much sweet porridge that it seemed enough to feed the whole world.