The porridge in the kettle bubbled like a weak fart and smelled nearly as bad. Everard poked at it with a stick, hungry but not hungry enough to scoop out a portion of the glop that endlessly cooked over the hearth. All day every day bits of food and water were added to the bottomless pit of grey, overcooked meats, vegetables and grains. As far as Everard knew the kettle had never been cleaned nor had it ever been off the fire. From time to time when the fire would die out the kettle would cool, but never for more than a day. His mother believed it was unlucky to let the kettle cool, “Evil spirits get in the porridge unless you purify it with the fire. That’s what the bubbling is—spirits being forced out! Let it cool and they build up, and will make you sick or even kill you.” She told stories of villagers that had run out of wood or were too lame to collect it, and ate cold porridge. “Watery fire came out both ends of them for days! They were doubled over in pain, because the evil spirits had gotten in and were having their way with them. If they’s lucky, they pass the spirits and eventually get well. Some just turned grey and died. That’s why you have to keep the porridge hot, and the fire crackling!”
Everard was the youngest of seven children. His father was the blacksmith for the village and had made the kettle holding the grey sludge Everard tended every day. “You must protect the porridge!” his mother intoned. “Your father is hammering at the iron all day and expects there to be food when he returns to the hut.” Everard’s brothers and sisters were charged with gathering firewood and collecting up anything edible to add to the pot. They scoured the forest for bugs, salamanders, larva, roots, berries and plants of almost any sort to toss into the porridge as they added wood to the pile. Everard mixed in the forest debris without question. His oldest brothers hunted for hare, birds, squirrels, moles, rats, hedgehogs, and anything else that had parents and a pelt. The animals were skinned and put in whole, bones and all. The village was near a rocky beach, and the children would occasionally find a half-alive fish they’d skin and mix into the mush. “Never put anything you find dead in the pot,” their mother warned. “Nearly dead is fine, alive is the best. But dead things beget more death. Never forget!”
Everard had a small stool where he sat every day, polished smooth from years of sitting while stirring the slurry so it wouldn’t burn, and adding water so it wouldn’t dry out. “And keep an eye out for those mongrel dogs! You turn your back for a second and they’ll clean out the kettle as fast as you can sneeze! Then we’d all starve and it would be your fault. You used to have another brother, but he let the dogs get to the kettle, so we ate him. We had no choice! So keep a careful eye on that pot!” his mother warned.
There had been no additional brother, but Everard’s mother wanted to make sure he took his work seriously and didn’t daydream away the family’s only source of food. Unfortunately the boredom of being stuck in the hut all day eventually got the better of Everard and he fell asleep, still holding onto the stirring stick. The wild dogs that roamed the countryside heard his snoring and sensed an opportunity, sneaking into the hut and eating half the gruel before they knocked the kettle to the ground, startling Everard awake. He swatted at them with the stick and they quickly ran for the hills.
Everard panicked. At least half the slurry was gone and there was little time before everyone would be home for supper. His mother would immediately notice how much was gone, and he feared being chopped into mincemeat to make up for the lost porridge. His mind racing, he finally decided to fill the bottom of the kettle with rocks to make the pot look full. They never ate all the terrible porridge and it might be enough for him cover his mistake. Everard ran to the beach grabbing any stone he could find. Returning to the hut with an armload, he added them to the kettle and worked them to the bottom. He stoked the fire to bring up the heat lost from the dog’s attack and the cold stones. By the time his family started to return from the day’s foraging, he was quietly manning his post, stirring the grey slop as he always did.
When his father arrived, they finally ate. His mother scooped servings of porridge onto wooden shingles. But instead of dutifully scooping the glop into their mouths, they all slowed as they noticed the taste of the grey slurry had dramatically improved. “What did you add to the porridge today?” Everard’s father asked his mother. “This tastes like something from the king’s table!” The whole family agreed.
“This is the same recipe that my mother made and her’s before. There’s nothing new about it,” she tasted it and was shocked by the delight dancing across her tongue. “Everard? Did you see anything new go into the kettle?”
“No mother, just the usual things from the woods,” Everard said, noticing how delicious the porridge was but saying nothing lest he face the same fate as his imaginary brother.
“You boys, what game did you add to the pot today?”
“None Mother. We didn’t bring back any game today,” the oldest boy said. Everard’s mother returned to the kettle and began to stir through the contents, searching for any new ingredients. Everard considered running into the night, but with the wolves and bandits, he knew he stood a better chance of survival by staying in the hut.
“What are these? Stones? Why are there stones in the porridge?” She began removing them, wiping the porridge from them and growing more angry with each new find.
“Everard! What happened to the porridge? Who put stones in the kettle?”
Everard was silent. He was too scared to lie and too terrified to tell the truth. He stared at his mother, shaking.
“Speak up boy!” she hollered, rattling the wooden shingles on the table.
“The dogs came and ate the porridge and I added the stones!” he blurted out, and cringed for the inevitable punishment.
“Where did you get the stones?” his mother asked.
“The beach,” he sighed.
“It must be the salt,” his father said. “I’ve heard of smiths tempering their steel in sea water, but I never thought to add it to a porridge!”
“Will I be chopped up and added to the kettle?” Everard asked.
“Not today, boy,” his mother replied.
And so sea water was forever added to the family porridge, which they all ate with pleasure. They let others in the village taste their porridge, and it was such a revelation that they opened a chain of porridge stands throughout the kingdom. They didn’t share their secret ingredient, instead telling people it was the special kettles that their father forged that made the porridge so delicious. The family thrived and grew wealthy, moving out of their hut and into a split-level shanty.