Making Stone Soup
an Enchanted by the Book entry
This is a piece written for Tara Penry’s Enchanted by the Book Contest, answering the question: When were you enchanted by a book, poem, or story?
I heard the story first from Mrs. Risley in the library at school.
Three soldiers trudged down a road in a strange country.
She rocked and read to my first-grade class gathered on the rug. One shoe dangled off her tennis-tanned foot as she flipped the book around to show us the pictures. The villagers hid their food from the hungry soldiers—buckets of milk down the wells, old quilts over the carrot bins. The soldiers asked at every door for a bit of food, and a corner to sleep in. The villagers all said no—they had nothing to spare.
Then the first soldier called out, “Good people!” The peasants drew near.
“We are three hungry soldiers in a strange land. We have asked you for food and you have no food. Well then, we’ll have to make stone soup.”
She rocked and read in a voice I can still hear, drawing us closer along with the villagers. Three round smooth stones went into the pot. Then a little salt and pepper that the children ran to fetch. We knew why they did. Children in books—children like us—could always sense enchantment and magic before the grown-ups could (except for perhaps, Mrs. Risley.)
“Stones like these generally make good soup. But oh, if there were carrots, it would be much better.”
“Why, I think I have a carrot or two,” said Francoise, and off she ran.
She came back with her apron full of carrots from the bin beneath the red quilt.
The story filled me up. Conflict, cleverness, cooperation, celebration. In first grade, I was still learning how it all worked—how a story is built, and how a group is, too. How to listen, how to share, how to honor the offerings of others.
Later that year, we turned Stone Soup into a play—my first of many. I was the lady with the carrots. I wore a pink plaid skirt and a gingham kerchief on my head. We practiced on the old wooden stage—small soldiers and villagers making soup and a story.
Those soldiers trudged down a road in a strange country, and we went with them. Deep into a French village. Deep into the recesses of the villagers’ cottages and carrot bins. Deep into the pot when they each added what they could—cabbages, potatoes, barley, a bit of beef. Deep into the night as they feasted and danced.
We went deep too, inhabiting the story. We learned our lines and brought costumes and props from home. My mother searched the city for carrots with the green lacy tops still on them—I knew only that kind would do.
Stories changed for me, then. I saw how words written and read aloud can come alive.
They lived in the library, read from a rocker. They lived in my classmates’ homes, as they dug through dress-up boxes and produce drawers. They lived on the stage, in the moments between lights up and curtain down. They lived when we added our own imaginations and ingredients to the big iron pot.
The soup and the story grew from almost nothing—smooth stones, black marks on white paper—all swirled up into something delicious, something that had to be shared.
A rich man's soup – and all from a few stones. It seemed like magic….
To cast a vote for this story, and for any of the others submitted, head to this link. Find my story in the comments and like it there. Comments are welcome there, too. ❤️ Voting is open until July 16, midnight EST.
Looking for a writing prompt? Use Tara’s question for your own writing: When were you enchanted by a book, poem, or story?
