The Soup That Wasn't for Sale
In the village of Glumbrook, tucked between the blue hills and the muttering pines, there was a man named Jerzy who made soup so good it was whispered about in other time zones. People traveled crooked miles over stone and dust just to catch the scent wafting from his chimney.
But Jerzy didn't sell his soup. Not for coin, not for silver, not for an armful of rubies nor a particularly well-behaved goat.
"If you want my soup," Jerzy would say, "you must bring something of equal worth."
The villagers would roll their eyes, but they came all the same.
First came Marten the carpenter. He brought a finely crafted stool, smoothed by loving hands, each leg bearing a subtle spiral. Jerzy ladled soup into his bowl but paused.
"Did this stool move your soul when you made it?" he asked.
"I sanded it for three days!" said Marten proudly.
"But did it sing to you?"
"No, but it creaked charmingly."
Jerzy sighed. "I think you can do better."
Next came Ila the knitter. She brought a pair of mittens as soft as forgiveness.
"These will warm you," she smiled.
"They're very nice," Jerzy agreed. "But do they warm the ungrateful hand? The hand that doesn't say thank you?"
Ila hesitated. "Maybe not that hand."
Jerzy nodded. "I think you can do better."
Emmer, a portrait painter, arrived with a canvas of Jerzy himself, gloriously dramatic, like a soup deity mid-ladle.
"I've captured your essence," he declared.
"You've captured my chin in betrayal," Jerzy replied, tapping the canvas. "Soup doesn't pout."
"I think you can do better."
Suri, the village auto mechanic—though no one in Glumbrook owned a working car—brought a rebuilt carburetor.
"This could power a 1982 Renault," she said.
"I make soup," Jerzy replied. "Does it taste like thyme and memory?"
"It tastes like unleaded."
"I think you can do better."
Then came Halbrun, the novelist. He presented Jerzy with the manuscript of Soup of Sorrow, a 900-page epic about broth and betrayal.
"I bled ink for this."
Jerzy flipped to chapter twelve. "Your soup character says, 'I am but an onion in the stew of fate.'"
"Poetic, isn't it?"
"Red onions don't belong in stew."
"I think you can do better."
Last came Tilda, a long-distance track runner with calves like cannonballs. She offered Jerzy one of her trophies.
"I ran across three counties for this," she said.
"And yet," Jerzy mused, "has your spirit run as far as your feet?"
Tilda blinked. "It got tired near county two."
"I think you can do better."
Many others tried. A beekeeper brought honey; Jerzy said it lacked melancholy. A flutist played a tune; he said it missed the garlic of grief. A juggler offered six juggling balls in constant motion; Jerzy admired the rhythm but found it less nourishing than lentils.
Frustrated, villagers began offering coins. Gold. Checks. Cryptic QR codes. Jerzy refused them all.
"I'm not after money," he said. "I'm after equivalent intention."
"But how do we know what's equal to your soup?" asked a small boy with a potato gun.
Jerzy smiled and stirred the pot. "When you offer something that changes me the way this soup changes you… we'll both know."
So the villagers returned to their crafts, their tools, their thoughts. And bit by bit, their barters began to shift—not in grandeur, but in sincerity. A lullaby hummed by a grandmother. A wood shaving carved into sorrow. A button sewn with a secret.
Some days, Jerzy accepted their offers. Other days, he didn't. But always, he listened.
And always, at the end, whether he gave them soup or not, he'd smile and say,
"I think you can do better."
And the village, oddly, got better.
(This short story is donated to the public domain. It goes very well with homemade soup.)
Stories of kindness and courage -
https://tinyurl.com/storiesofkindnessandcourage
https://philshapirochatgptexplorations.blogspot.com/
"Wisdom begins with wonder." - Socrates
"Learning happens thru gentleness."
Comments
Post a Comment