Willa’s Soup That Winked — Every afternoon, Willa tapped her spoon three times, sniffed the carrot steam, and waited for the soup to make one tiny blurp before lunch. Read the full story →
Every afternoon, Willa tapped her spoon three times, sniffed the carrot steam, and waited for the soup to make one tiny blurp before lunch. She wanted the first perfect bowl for the market bell ringer, whose bell made everyone’s stomachs growl. Until one day, a black peppercorn rolled off the shelf, bounced off a jar, and said, “Bet you can’t catch me before I tickle the pot.”
Because of that, Willa’s spoon went splat instead of stir, and carrot coins hopped like little orange drums. Because of THAT, the soup sneezed a warm peppery puff that fogged the window and made the hanging whisk jiggle. Willa could have chased the peppercorn, but she folded her wings, counted twelve slow blinks, and let the pot settle.
At last the peppercorn floated up, dizzy and giggling, right beside the fattest carrot. Willa scooped it out, rang the lunch triangle, and served soup so smooth the bell ringer asked for seconds. If you peek at Willa’s spoon, maybe you can spot where the soup gave one tiny blurp.
